


The Promotion

by Teland



Series: just where home is [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, LGBTQ Character of Color, Light BDSM, M/M, Making Out, Pseudo-Incest, Rimming, Romance, Seduction, Underage Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4266297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't have to use that gorgeous pistol of yours to shoot yourself in the bloody prick, you know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Why Just Drink When You Can Drink And Fuck?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts), [Houndstar (green_animation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_animation/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Not mine, just fucking about.
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: AU-ized mentions of season two revelations, but takes place decidedly pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: All Pixie's bunny. "What if Treville picks up a young Porthos some night?" I mean, she probably said something else, but I was already writing in my head. 
> 
> Also, every year around this time, for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, I wind up writing about death at least a little. Consider that another warning. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: To Melly, Pixie, Spice, Houndstar, Ryn, and, of course, my Jack for audiencing and encouragement. This one means a lot to me, and I really appreciate y'all sticking with me for it. 
> 
> All remaining mistakes, weirdnesses, and fuckeries are entirely my own fault.

Treville's first thought when he sees the boy — and he *is* a boy, impressive size or no; you get so you're able to tell in Treville's line of work — is that he's not drunk enough for a fight to seem like as good an idea as a fuck. 

The boy looks *that* belligerent, and Baril, the innkeeper, looks *that* unwilling to let him in. Because he's a man of color? Treville doesn't often drink here, but that sort of attitude is never, ever that uncommon — 

No, there's a group of tanners by one of the windows — that smell is never anything *less* than unmistakable — and *two* of them are men of color. 

So... what's the problem? 

And, of course, it's not the best idea — in terms of avoiding fights — for Treville to be moving in close to the argument in question — 

Fast and steady and silent, he's not so old that he can't be basically *competent* — 

— but. That's just it, isn't it? 

He's feeling more than a little old, right now. 

Feeling a little — 

"— *no* one here wants your 'custom', *sir*!" 

"I've never done a bloody thing —" 

"You bring fights with you wherever you *go*! Everyone *knows* this! You started a fight in Marron's tavern, and the repairs will cost more than he earns in a week!" 

The boy winces. 

Baril looks sourly triumphant. 

It seems reasonably clear how this will go — and maybe how it *should* go — but...

The boy looks, for all his size... hungry. 

Treville taps Baril on the shoulder. 

He gasps and jumps like Treville had pointed a pistol at his bloody — at his eye. Treville's not supposed to use language like that anymore, and so it's best not to use it even in the privacy of his own mind. He nods, mostly to himself, and waits for Baril to regain *complete* control of himself. 

"Oh, sir — I mean, Captain! And may I just say congratulations on your promotion —" 

"You already did, Baril," Treville says, and nods, carefully respectfully, to the boy. "Just how is it said that he 'brings fights with him'? Hm?" 

Baril licks his lips. "Well, I..." 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "Is there anything known in particular? Or do people just find him, for some doubtless fascinating reason, *exciting* to be around?" And Treville has never had the height of some of his brothers-in-arms — 

Has never been *truly* imposing — 

But that doesn't mean he can't loom when he wants to. 

And, out of the corner of his eye, Treville can see the boy very much sizing him up with large, dark, and obviously-intelligent eyes. 

Well, then. 

He looms over Baril just a *bit* more — 

"Captain! I!" 

"*Talk*, Baril." 

Baril looks nervously back and forth between him and the boy — and then very obviously decides that Treville is the greater threat. 

Treville is not so old that he doesn't find that warming — 

"I... Captain. It is said — in *many* places — that this *boy* is a cardsharp and a cheat." 

Really, now. "And yet you haven't been able to prove that? Not anyone in your guild?" 

"Well — no —" 

"You just have the — obviously — unsubstantiated word of people who were fool enough to gamble while drunk." 

"I — sir —" 

"Is that *correct*." 

"*Yes*, but —" 

"People who then, instead of accepting their losses like men, chose to start fights with a large, strong man which then caused a large amount of property damage. Is *that* correct." 

"Y-yes, but —" 

"So, why, precisely, aren't *those* men being barred from your establishments, Baril?" 

Baril blanches impressively. "Sir — sir..." 

"Don't bother answering," Treville says, and puts just a hint of disgust in his voice. It always works better than *any* amount of yelling when you want a man to focus on doing everything in his power to avoid fucking up around you again... whether or not that man *actually* did anything wrong in the first place. 

Baril sweats, swallows, and nods. 

"This gentleman will be drinking with me tonight, Baril. I want the table by the fireplace, a bottle of *good* wine, and dinner for both of us. You will not make us wait." 

More nodding — "Yes, sir! I mean — of course not, sir! I —" And then Baril scurries off at speed. 

And, when they're alone... 

"You're Army, then?" And the boy's voice is broad, rough — he hasn't said enough for Treville to be *entirely* positive, but he'd still wager on the Court. 

Treville turns to face the boy, sweeps off his hat with a flourish — 

The boy snorts impressively — 

— and bows. "The newly-minted Captain Treville, of the King's Musketeers, at your service." And then he stands. 

The boy's expression for *that* is complex. On the surface, an entirely creditable smirk that speaks *volumes* about how the boy feels about authority figures. Below that... 

Well, below that there are a just a few other things that are harder to discern, and be sure of. 

They make him look a lot closer to what his probable age is, though. 

Still... "I don't suppose you'd care to share *your* name...?" 

The boy gives him an *openly* speculative look as he leans against the — thankfully-closed — door. "I don't suppose there's anything in particular you'd *like* for it to be... Captain?" 

Treville — doesn't cough. Not on the outside. 

He's not that old, and it hasn't been *that* long since a night out whoring was a night out looking for boys as *well* as the more politically-expedient women. It — 

("Treville, you know... you have to stop this."

"Sir, I wasn't aware that you'd taken up an active interest in the personal lives of your men.") 

And Captain de la Fere had looked precisely as pained for that as he should've, as far as Treville had been concerned — they didn't *do* this — but — 

("There is exactly one candidate worthwhile to be my successor, Treville, and you are he —" 

"No —" 

"I've given you precisely as much time as I could. That time is done.") 

But. 

It's been long enough. 

And it's been long enough since the boy's little sally that he's smirking at Treville a lot more solidly, a lot more *confidently*. 

He *thinks* he knows what Treville wants — and he thinks that *Treville* is the kind of man who *doesn't* know what he wants. Which... 

No. 

Treville moves slightly more into the boy's space, careful not to be especially threatening about it. 

The boy still flares his nostrils just a little bit, and — 

They are absolutely of a height. 

How much taller will the boy grow? How old *is* he? How — no, questions for later, if ever. For now: "Son. I've been picking up, and feeding, and *fucking* lovely boys like you since well before you were born." 

The boy's eyes glitter just a bit. "Is that so." 

Treville shows his teeth. "It is so. And? I've never felt the need to have those boys be anyone — at all — but who they've needed to be." 

The boy blinks for that — 

*Studies* Treville for a *long* moment — 

And then lifts his fuzzy chin. "I've never 'felt the need' to be anyone other than myself, Captain —" 

"Treville, please." 

The boy takes that in with a little nod. "Porthos, then." 

"Thank you," Treville says, smiling and gesturing — oh, yes, with the flourish he and Reynard had practiced over and over and *over* again until their capes finally stopped messing them up — at their very clean, very warm, very brightly-lit table. 

Porthos snorts. "*Right*," he says, and actually *does* give Treville his back as he makes his way to the table in question. 

But the tension in his shoulders says he's still paying attention. Treville can't help but approve of that — and of the way the boy moves exactly as if he knows how to handle himself. 

It's not that Treville *isn't* the greater threat. It's just that there are things a man notices when — 

("Treville, you are my subordinate —" 

"Yes, sir —"

"But you are also my friend, and that will always be the case. As your *friend*, I am telling you —"

"Sir, I do not *wish* to take your position —" 

"— that you've *been* taking my position for *years*.")

When. 

The Captain has been dead for three weeks. 

He'd retired twenty-four days ago. 

He'd — 

He'd given Treville exactly as much time as he could. And now — 

The boy — Porthos — is pouring wine in Treville's glass. 

It will *be* glasses from now on, not tumblers. 

It — but. 

He's not pouring himself any. Treville shakes off his megrims and gives Porthos a look. "No wine for you?" 

Porthos gives him a sharply sly smile. "Are you *absolutely* sure you don't need all of it for yourself...?" 

Treville snorts. "*No*. That's why we'll get another bottle after this one." 

Porthos grins for that. "Will we, then? You're not worried about uh... performance problems?" And he grins even wider, raising his eyebrows. 

Well, well, well. "You're just as sweet and innocent as the day is long, aren't you." 

"That I am, Treville. It being winter, and all." 

Treville barks a laugh. "I like a boy with a smart mouth," he says, and just — leaves that there. 

Porthos opens his mouth — 

Closes it — 

And snorts *loudly*. "That almost went past me." 

Treville sucks his teeth the way Reynard would before he took that shot to the cheek and wound up having to have eight shattered teeth *pulled*. "That's no good." 

"Right terrible, yeah," Porthos says, and pours himself a drink. He examines the wine in the light for a moment, which... 

"Does it meet with your approval?" 

"I have no bloody idea." And he grins — like a boy. "Never seen any this *clear*, have I?" 

"Mm. I suppose not. You might find it sweeter —" 

"*Sweeter*, eh," he says, and drinks deep — 

And hums — 

And narrows his eyes in pleasure — "*That's* good." 

Treville makes a smaller flourish with one hand. 

Porthos snorts. "You with those little — you know I'm still going to make you pay for the privilege of riding my arse."

"Oh, it's a *privilege*, is it?" 

"Oh, yeah," Porthos says, leaning back with his wine and actually sipping this time. "I *don't* sell it too often these days." And he raises his eyebrows. 

Treville takes *that* invitation for what it is, and gives Porthos a *good* looking-over, as opposed to a cursory one. 

Hungry, yes — but that could *just* be because he's a phenomenally large boy who's still growing. His clothes are by no means rich, but they *are* warm enough, and clean enough, right down to the boots — 

Porthos lifts one for him — no holes in the soles. 

The boots also look like they *fit*, and while the cloak that's currently drying on a hook by the fire is threadbare — 

While the gloves were chosen more for dexterity than warmth — hmm... 

"Pickpocketing?" 

"I'm shite at that," Porthos says, and lowers his foot. 

Treville looks over Porthos's hands, his strong arms, broad shoulders — 

Pictures him with a sword — 

No. "Knifework?" 

Porthos makes a face. "Not to *steal* from people." 

"But when you have to." He needs to stop this — 

Porthos raises his eyebrows again. "We *all* do what we have to, Treville."

And — Porthos is about to start asking the kind of questions that Treville doesn't want to answer, the kind of questions that are all about why Treville is quizzing him *this* way and not some other, more useful — 

More useful to what the two of them will be doing *tonight* — 

He doesn't want to be bloody *useful* — 

("Treville." 

"Sir." 

"Dare I ask why Kitos is in a horse trough, Reynard is on the roof of the mess, and *you* have two black eyes, a knot on your forehead, and what looks like the beginnings of a *hanging* scar?" 

"Well..." 

"*Yes*, Treville?" 

"You do tend to dare much, sir. As a general rule.") 

Treville squeezes his eyes shut and just — 

The Spanish had done for Kitos, cornering him in a crumbling castle stairwell on a bitter, icy day in the Pyrenees during an action that was supposed to be the start of something greater for the Crown, but had all come to nothing, even though they'd carried the day. 

Reynard... 

His Reynard... 

No. 

He opens his eyes — and finds Porthos giving him a *patiently* shrewd look that simultaneously gives him far too many years and not enough. 

There's... 

There's too much softness in that look for the life Treville *knows* the boy has been living. 

"Back with us, then?" And Porthos's smile is gentle and cautious. 

Treville grunts. "Forgive me, I..." But what, precisely, is he supposed to say after that? I've become one of the single most powerful men in France and now I'm very *sad* about it? 

"We *could* talk about your problems." 

That. "Mm. That *is* a possibility —" 

"A tradition of long-standing in my — sometime — profession," Porthos says, and winks. 

Treville blinks — and stops and thinks and goes *over* their conversation of the last several minutes. 

Everything Porthos has said. 

How he's said it. 

And everything he hasn't had one bit of trouble understanding. 

"You're an educated man." 

"Somewhat. I'm working on it." 

("Sir —" 

"Don't start, Treville." 

"We both know what you're *doing* —" 

"What I'm *doing* is *assigning* you to take a good, hard look at our long-gunners. I don't know what they need —" 

"Yes, you bloody *do*!" 

"— *they* don't know what they need —" 

"*Sir* —" 

"But, by God, Treville, *you* will know what they need by the end of the day, or I. Will. Know. Why!") 

Treville drinks off the rest of his wine, and barely — *barely* — remembers not to slam the rather-more-fragile-than-a-tumbler glass down on the table. 

Porthos refills it. 

Treville drinks. 

Porthos refills it. 

Treville drinks, breathes, and doesn't do a thing about the tear that rolls down his cheek. 

It's always worse when you don't let it alone. 

Then, he looks at Porthos. "You use the cards — or is it dice?" 

"Both." 

Treville nods. "You use them to pay for an education." 

"That I do. And the other little things, too." 

"You're good enough at it to have done well for yourself — obviously." 

"Thank you —"

"Why the fights?" 

Porthos... glitters at him a little. 

"Was that a difficult question, Porthos?" 

"I'm wondering why I'm being interviewed for a *job*, Treville," he says, and the light is *hard* in his large and frankly beautiful eyes — 

But it's another one of those complex looks. 

There's more there than just resentment and impatience. And it's entirely possible that the right sort of answer from *him* will let him *see* the more. 

Does he want that? 

("Mates, you spend too much time *talking* to these whores —" 

"Kitos, mon ami, I love you, but you are — you are one of these *apes* from the *jungle*." 

"Aye, I am, Reynard! And the ladies love feeling my fur on their nips!") 

And — 

("Tell me something, mon ami..." 

"*Anything*, Reynard —" 

"Ah, easy, do not sound so *desperate* over there, Treville! You act like I've never had an ague before!") 

He'd never *had* one that had made him lost ten pounds in a *week* — but. 

("Right, of course. I just haven't been sleeping well."

"Ah, this is a terrible mistake." 

"Is it, now?" 

"Mais, oui! How will the many fickle and shallow boys of Paris know what pleasures await them in your strong arms if you look such a sight?") 

And he'd snorted — 

("When is the last time you've been *barbered*, cher?"

"Reynard —" 

"You will go — you will go as soon as I nap, which will be soon, but you must tell me something." 

"Yes?"

"Your boys...")

And Treville had frowned, but — 

("What about them, mate?"

"Your beautiful boys. You would talk down the night with the ones who were good for that." 

"I would." 

"And fuck the holy *life* *into* the ones who were good for that."

"That, too, and you were always the same with your women."

"Mon ami, mon cher, I do not --")

And Reynard had been wracked with coughs then, harsh and ugly things that obviously hurt him badly, obviously *exhausted* him. 

It was even worse to refuse him wine for the first few minutes after the fit passed, to make them both *wait* for that because giving it to him too soon would just send him off on *another* fit — 

But. 

Treville could give him the wine, at last. 

Reynard had sipped slowly, slowly, eyes widening once with *heartbreaking* fear as he obviously felt another fit coming on — 

But he'd managed to hold it back. 

And then Treville had laid him back down. 

They'd both known neither of them were going anywhere. 

They'd both known a lot of things. 

Reynard had dozed, fitful and pale and thin and still — always — beautiful.

After a while, Treville had lit a candle — good beeswax, so it wouldn't smoke too badly —

("Mon ami, your beard, it is a *disgrace*."

"Reynard —" 

"You remember the names. All of the names. Don't you." 

"Whose names? I —" 

"Your *boys*. Your *beauties*. Hard-cocked and smart-mouthed and smooth-cheeked —" 

"Reynard —" 

"And *never* red-haired, and *never* from anywhere *near* the Périgord — I could hear it in their voices! — and never quite so tall as me...")

And Treville had ground his teeth — 

("What. What do you want me to say?" 

"That you love me, mon ami. Just this once when we are not drunk, when one of us is not 'sleeping', when it is more than what is in our *eyes* —" 

"*Reynard* —" 

"It is the end, and we know it, and we know that there is nothing I wanted more in this world than to love you the way you love me, and I do not deserve to *hear* it... but. Please. I still want it.") 

This time, when he blinks himself out of the memory, no new tears fall. 

It's not truly a surprise — he'd spent much of the *month* after Reynard's death in a drunken, weeping *stupor*, and only the Captain had been able to pull him out of it. 

The — 

Treville is the Captain now.

And the boy — the beauty — in front of him is neither red-haired, nor from anywhere near the Périgord. 

He isn't as tall as Reynard had been — though he almost certainly will be, someday. 

He has a very smart mouth, and — 

And, right now, Treville needs that. 

"Porthos," he says, pouring them both more wine and not bothering to hide the hoarseness of his voice. 

"I'm listening," he says, quiet and gentle again — but still a little wary. 

Treville smiles wryly. "You're getting the job interview because my predecessor — the Comte de la Fere — spent the past three *years* brutalizing me into being the sort of man who gives *every* strong, smart, healthy-looking young man with an interest in bettering himself absolutely sincere job interviews, whether or not I also dearly want to fuck the young man in question." 

For a moment, Porthos only looks at him. 

But then a flush spills down from his cheeks — 

He swallows — "There's more to that you're not saying." 

Treville inclines his head. "My predecessor — and the very last friend and confidant I had in this world — died three weeks ago, after I had spent the last two *years* of our acquaintance fighting him... fighting him bitterly. Not *being* a friend. I managed not to make an absolute shambles out of paying my respects to his family, but that's entirely due to his widow, and his sons." 

Porthos inhales sharply. "Right. *I* think you should get a room and have Baril send our dinner and another bottle or two of this *very* good wine to it, because you need —" 

"Porthos," he says, and hates himself for how easy, how natural, the edge of command comes. 

And *wants* for the way Porthos narrows his eyes in response to it *while* halting in his tracks. 

And — "Don't tell me what I need." 

Porthos gives him a long look — and then smirks. "I haven't bloody decided if you're paying me enough to give me *orders*, *sir* —" 

"Don't —" 

"So bloody *watch* that." 

They stare at each other for long moments. It's clear that some significant *enough* part of Porthos expects to have lost the sale for this — 

But it's also clear that *most* of him *knows* that he hasn't, and that... 

Treville shakes his head once, licks his lips, raises a hand, and snaps his fingers. 

Baril appears at speed. "Yes, sir? Is there a problem? Do you —" 

"Prepare your best room for us, Baril. Our meals *will* be sent up, and there'll be two bottles of —" Treville pauses. "Would you like to try something different?" 

Porthos cocks his head to the side and grins a little. "Surprise me." 

Treville grins back. "That sparkling vintage from Carcasonne. Do you still have any?" 

Baril starts to sweat again. "I. I was saving —"

Treville smiles at *him*. "You were *saving* it for highly-*influential* individuals who can do things like, say, have your licenses revoked for the countless criminals, deviants, traitors, and heretics you allow onto your premises nightly?" 

"I — sir, I don't —" And Baril looks around his quiet, warm, peaceful inn. "I don't know what —"

"Why, this inn is positively crawling with them," Treville says flatly. 

"Grk. Two... two bottles, you said? Not... there is a case! I could, perhaps, have it sent to the garrison —" 

"That *won't* be necessary," Treville says. "Two will be sufficient, for the time being. Send someone else to tell us when the room is ready." 

"Yes, sir!" And off Baril goes. 

And Treville... does his level best to slump *only* internally — 

"You're not actually that hard a man, at all, are you." 

— but there's really no point to pretending, at this late date. He drinks more wine. "I'm not at *all* sure what gave me away," he says, and smiles at Porthos, feeling like an *old* deviant as the boy does *him* the courtesy of examining him slowly and obviously. 

He feels all of his scars, each individual grey hair — 

He'd never been a beauty — and there had been so *many* times when he'd wondered if, perhaps, a bit more *grace* to his features would've been enough to make Reynard — 

Not that. 

Not that. 

"Did you want to see *my* boots?" 

"I want to *steal* your boots," Porthos says, leaning back with a snort. "I bet you could stomp through a bloody *river* without feeling it." 

Treville laughs. "Not quite that, but they are, in fact, the best money can buy. Would you like a pair of your own?" 

Porthos splutters, spattering their table with wine. 

"Oh, terrible form, son. You'll have to hold your liquor better than than if you mean to be —" 

"A bloody *Musketeer*?"

And — that really is what he'd just offered. What he'd just — 

To a cardsharp whore whose last name — 

Whose history and — 

"That's what I sodding *thought*. You're a mess, mate. Let's get you a little fixed-up, eh?" 

"I don't need *cosseting*." 

Porthos snorts again. "Yeah, you do." 

Treville narrows his eyes. 

Porthos makes a mockery of fear. "Are you going to shoot me, then? Run me through for pointing out the bloody obvious? You'd run yourself through *first*." 

He really would, but — "How old are you?" 

"Mm? Dunno. Fifteen, maybe. Could be sixteen. You're... what? Thirty-five?"

Treville blinks — "You're good at that." 

Porthos shrugs. "You learn to read people when you live the way I do, Treville." 

That — "When you live the way I do, too." 

"Yeah? What d'you know about me, then?" 

Treville shakes his head. "Nothing that I trust, because I'm stupid with grief, self-pity, drink, and, of course, lust," he says, and smiles *wryly*. 

"What, in that order?" And Porthos pulls on a show of affront that is — 

Is... 

("Mon ami, I demand that you admit, right this moment, that I am more lovely than Kitos!" 

"Kitos is covered with hair and most of his expressions make it look like someone took a skillet to his face, Reynard." 

"Why would I make difficult demands of my good friends?") 

Treville shudders *hard* — 

"You know," Porthos says, in that softer voice of his, "you could *tell* me where the deadly ground is. I'm good at remembering things like that." 

Treville pins Porthos with a look — he can't actually stop himself from doing it. 

"Uh. Yeah?" 

"Have you ever been in love?" 

Porthos swallows. "Yeah. I have. I am." 

"More than once?" 

"Just once." 

"It's the same for me," Treville says, and lets himself blink once. "His name was Reynard — just that, because many Musketeers choose new names once they join, and it pleased him to name himself after his red hair and mischievous disposition." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "'Mischievous'?" 

"He was a staggeringly beautiful and charming arsehole who was the direct cause of at least half of the punishment details I've had to perform during my military career." 

"And the other half?" 

Treville shows his teeth. "Entirely my own fault. Kitos let us do all the planning for our adventuring. Said just *watching* us plot made him need a drink, and I think you can guess why that was convenient." 

Porthos grins. "That I can. So you made a bit of noise, did you?" 

Treville smiles helplessly. "It wasn't until the last bit of abortive warring that I finally had more scars *from* the warring than I did from the —" 

"Whoring?" 

Treville spreads his hands. 

Porthos snickers. "So. All right. You three Musketeers —" 

"Friends. Brothers. Lovers — if chastely." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows again. 

Treville laughs softly. "Neither Reynard nor Kitos had any interest in men, though Kitos was sometimes drunk enough to wake up with an especially pouty-lipped boy." 

Porthos blows him a kiss — and raises his eyebrows *again*. 

And Treville grins. "More boyish than you. Your beard looks soft, though." 

"It is," Porthos says, and meets Treville's eyes steadily. 

Treville nods. "More?" 

"Please do — no, wait, Irenie is on her way." 

"Mm. You *do* come here often." 

"Often enough to know the maids, yeah." And then he pauses, all over. 

"Porthos?" 

"Look, I'm just going to say this quick, and then I'd like to leave it, all right?" 

"Of course." 

"Right," Porthos says, and then Irenie is there and very obviously *wishing* she could pay court to Porthos the way she *has* to pay court to Treville. 

Irenie can't possibly be more than fourteen, and her skin would be soft under Porthos's calluses, and she can't have him tonight. 

Treville gets directions to the room rather than allowing her to escort them, and then silently asks for permission to *touch*. 

Porthos gives it with a look, and Treville rests his hand on one large, powerful biceps, cupping only slightly — subtly — and leading Porthos to the stairs and up. "You were saying?" 

"'m not from around here," Porthos says, quietly. 

"I did *sense* that..." 

Porthos snorts. "On the one hand, the marks are easier. Even when they *expect* me to be a sharp, they *also* expect me to be stupid, slow, *primitive*. You know how it goes." 

"I do, indeed." 

"So, I make money hand over fist in places like this, right? But then, even if I let the marks win some back — *most* back — they're so hacked-off about losing to the big, primitive animal..." 

"The fights start."

"And *continue*. Sometimes down the bloody *street*, because, see, I may be a big animal, but I'm not supposed to be quick, or strong, or skilled, or — anything like that." 

"You're not supposed to beat them to within an inch of their lives?" 

"I bloody *wish* I could! And you know exactly why I *can't*." 

Treville winces. That... "Yes, you're right. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." 

"'s all right, you've a lot on your mind. Anyway, since I *can't* beat them into a slow, painful death in the gutter? I maybe humiliate them some." 

"Oh... hm." 

"Yeah. I *know*. I *know* that's even worse in some ways. Men need their bloody pride. So. Yeah. My experiments with working this kind of neighborhood are done, I think." 

The urge to tell him how much easier a time he'd have with finer clothes — 

How much help Treville could and *would* *give* him with that —-

All Porthos has to do is — 

"Still with me, mate?" 

Treville shivers and stares at the closed door of room six. 

And not at a future Porthos in fine, fine leathers. 

Not at a future Porthos whom he can have —

"The funny thing is, I *don't* think you're thinking about backing out on me."

— more than once. Treville laughs softly and opens the door on — relative — splendor. "Not even remotely." 

"Do you ever?" 

"Back out...?" 

"Of anything you want," Porthos says, closing the door behind him and posing against it a little, while — 

Hm. "Are you giving me something nice to look at while you check the room for weapons and escape routes?" 

Porthos winks at him. "All part of the service, mate. I don't want you thinking that I didn't *earn* my pay." 

"Have you decided what that pay will be...?" 

"Other than a king's ransom? Nah. Still working it out in my head." 

Treville snorts and removes his belts, setting them aside — and, yes, Porthos is watching him even more closely, now. "Ask, please." 

"Not a question so much as... I don't know. Thinking something through." 

And that... Treville strips down to his shirt and trousers with easy speed, then gives himself a moment to enjoy the truly fine rugs under his toes, *then* — "I don't suppose I could be of assistance?" 

And Porthos looks down at Treville's feet — 

Treville wiggles his toes obligingly — 

And Porthos laughs softly and just a little breathlessly. "Right. I'm standing here trying to figure out if you've decided to just go ahead and trust me this much, or if you're *that* confident in your ability to take me down. Should it become necessary, and all." 

Treville shows his teeth. "Yes." 

Porthos snorts *hard*. "Oh, I like *that*," he says, walking in, at last — but veering off toward the windows. 

He looks out of each — 

Nods at what he sees — 

Hangs his cloak — 

And leaves an impressive pile of weapons on an end-table. All of the weapons are in the truncheon and dagger families, but there's a fair amount of variety just the same — and all of the weapons are well-cared-for. 

Treville nods. 

"Glad I could meet with your approval, mate." 

"All too many boys treat their weapons like trash and then expect them to be there for them anyway." 

Porthos sits to work off his own boots and wags his head. "True enough. Certainly, it's the sort of thing that's saved *my* arse more than once." 

Treville hums. "And now I'm conflicted." 

Porthos snorts and stands again, and they move to the sitting room, where there's a rich-looking fish chowder, fresh bread, butter, and, because he's now the *Captain* of the Musketeers, a small pot of olive oil. Porthos sniffs it curiously, tastes it... 

"Do you like it?" 

"Not bad. Interesting. What is it?" 

"Olive oil. Have you heard of it?" 

Porthos blinks and nods and — looks at him. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Say it." 

"It *just* occurred to me that *you're* bloody slumming it tonight." 

"I wouldn't have been before my promotion — I'm only second-generation gentry, and I am not a wealthy man the way my predecessor was — but..." Treville spreads his hands. "How much does it bother you?" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows, sets the olive oil down, and *sits* down. 

"Really." 

He picks up his spoon. "My mother taught me to wait to eat until everybody was sitting down, but..." 

Treville smiles helplessly. It hurts on his face. 

"C'mon, now —" 

"We both know you're pretending that this — all of it — isn't bothering —" 

"Isn't it about time for another little hand-thingy from you? Another swirly thing that makes you look like a fop *and* like the most dangerous man on the planet?" 

Treville blinks. "I... is it?" 

Porthos grins and spins his spoon over his fingers. "To make me feel more comfortable, like. Make me feel *seduced*." 

And that *is*, of course, exactly what he was doing. So. 

Treville makes a flourish towards the food — 

"*There* you go —" 

And another towards the wine — 

"That's what I bloody *like* —" 

— which he opens and pours — 

"Oh — what. Bubbles? Really? Like... like *soap*?" 

"Not at all. Try it." 

"Right, but I warn you, this brown doesn't wash off," Porthos says, and lifts his glass — 

Treville laughs helplessly and watches even more helplessly — 

And Porthos drinks and coughs and — giggles, just a little, before flushing and clearing his throat and *looking* at him. "I didn't bloody make that noise." 

Treville nods with utmost solemnity. "No man ever, ever does." 

Porthos grins. "This is bloody great. All, I don't know, tart and sweet and... I don't know!" He laughs again. 

Treville grins back. "Let's drink an absolutely unconscionable amount of it." 

"I like the way you think."


	2. No, Really, It's A Job Interview.

The fish chowder lasts minutes for both of them. 

And they drink — 

The bread doesn't do much better. 

And they drink — 

Treville's grand, unspoken plan to be a reasonably good person who honors his last friend's memory crumbles before it fully forms, because Porthos isn't especially fond of the taste of the olive oil on the bread, and — 

And. 

And they drink. 

And Porthos's smiles are beautiful — 

"Are they, then? Is it the dimples?" And Porthos's eyes are sparkling in the candlelight — 

And they're both holding glasses of the sparkling wine — 

And Treville is, perhaps — 

A bit drunk. 

Porthos snickers. "How the bloody hell did you get promoted so high, eh? A *rampant* buggerer like you —" 

"You might be my only type —" 

"You already told me I wasn't!" 

Treville laughs hard. "Listen — I'm going to give you a piece of excellent advice —" 

"Don't go out drinking with strange whores when you haven't been eating in days?" 

Treville opens and closes his mouth — and stops that. 

Porthos shrugs. "Your leathers were hanging on you a bit." 

Well, that's just —

"You still looked *fit* —" 

Treville *looks* at Porthos. 

"What? You did! And do. I can't bloody wait to see you naked." 

And that — is heat coiled low in his belly. That old, familiar... 

"Yeah. You want it, too. Let's get a little more food in you so you don't pass out before you can *get* it." 

"I —" But there's nothing there to fight. Nothing — 

Treville stands, automatically correcting for his own drunkenness — which is indeed more severe than he'd thought it would be — and moves to stand over Porthos — 

Who looks at his *crotch* — 

Treville laughs. "Don't do that — yet. Please." 

"Then what should I do, eh?" And Porthos looks up slowly, slowly — 

He makes Treville feel *ten feet tall* — 

He makes it incredibly necessary to lean in — 

To push his hands into those curls, so soft, so *soft* — 

"Treville..." 

To tilt his head back and kiss him, and make it a good one, so deep, so wet — 

Porthos *grunts* into his mouth — 

Does it again when Treville slips his tongue *in* — 

*Sucks* Treville's tongue, and this — 

Fuck, yes, *this*, because Porthos barely has any beard to speak of, but he has *enough* — 

Because when Treville takes one hand out of his hair to cup his shoulder it's big, muscular, *strong* — 

Treville massages Porthos's shoulder and *fucks* his mouth — 

Porthos gasps a little, just a *little* — and then comes back with a kiss of his own that's skilled and deft and *cautiously* aggressive. 

He doesn't know what Treville likes. 

He doesn't know what Treville wants. 

He's checking to see if Treville wants someone to play the *virgin* — 

And that. Is exactly how much possibility Treville can handle. He *grips* Porthos, curls and shoulder, and then pulls back — 

"No? Fuck, that was *hot* —" 

"I *may* have picked up a skill or two over the years..." 

Porthos laughs. "Then show me — wait, we were going to feed you more —" 

"I'm not hungry for food," Treville says, and drags his thumb over that strong, hard flesh — 

Porthos turns to look at that hand — 

Turns back to give *him* a measuring look — 

"I suppose you're not, at that," he says, and licks his plush, pink lips. "Why don't you give me some ideas about what you're hungry for, eh? Let us negotiate." 

Treville doesn't let himself squeeze Porthos's shoulder any harder than he already is. The fact that Porthos *can* take the pressure — 

He wants to be a better man, in this boy's eyes. 

He knows he can't manage to be a greater one, tonight. He — 

("I love you, I've loved you since the day we first met, don't leave me, please don't ever *leave* me —" 

"Mon cher —" 

"Reynard —" 

"Kiss me, mon cher, kiss me and let me feel —") 

"Treville..." 

Treville inhales sharply and shakes his head once. He will not. 

He will not relive that kiss of illness and pain and blood and fortified wine and *death* and *goodbye* — 

Not again. Instead, he nuzzles Porthos's mouth — 

Sips his sigh like something honeyed, something — 

Porthos traces Treville's lips with the tip of his tongue, ticklish and deft — 

Treville sucks lightly — 

Nips — 

Porthos gasps a little — 

And Treville goes in for a kiss that is... vicious. It's slow, and hard, and *relentless* — or at least the fuck of it is. 

It's designed to make the tightest, most innocent boy *fully* aware of his own arse and everything that can happen to it — 

Everything Treville, personally, can do to it — 

And Porthos takes it perfectly, opening for it and leaning back in his chair — 

Guiding Treville's hand from his shoulder to the laces on his shirt — 

Treville has never needed his invitations spelled-out. He opens Porthos's shirt one-handed and reaches in to touch, to stroke — 

To *molest* — 

Porthos nods into the kiss, just once — 

Treville pulls back — 

Porthos blinks. "No? You don't want to know when you're getting me hot?" 

"I absolutely want to know," Treville says, grinning. "I just want more of you right now." 

Porthos snorts and stands, taking off his shirt and tossing it toward his weapons — 

And Treville walks him back —

"Oh —" 

— and back and back — 

"Treville —" 

— until he's up against a wall — 

"Like this, then?" 

"To start. I want you all night." 

"You know that's extra —" 

"It's the prerogative of the Captain of the King's Musketeers to draw on lines of credit all over Paris —" 

"Oi!"

"... though not with his... paramours," Treville says, grinning and kissing Porthos's smooth cheek, and kissing it, and kissing it all the way to Porthos's round, prominent ear. "Baril doesn't expect to get paid for any of this tonight." 

"What — really?" 

Treville licks his ear, tastes him, his oils and salt — "My purse is yours. Will you let me eat your arse?" 

"Oh — fuck — yeah. Yeah, I will —" 

"Thank you," Treville says, and licks him again. "Baril gains prominence for every bill I leave him holding," he says, and strokes down to Porthos's dark, dark nipples — 

"Unh —" 

"You like that? Just having them petted?" 

"'m sensitive when I'm drunk," Porthos says, laughing and offering himself — 

Treville winces with lust. "I want...." 

"Yeah?" 

"I want to bite them." 

Porthos grunts. "You want to hurt me?" 

Treville rubs Porthos's nipples with some of his less-severe calluses — 

"Oh — shit — Treville —" 

"Do you like that." 

"Are you going to answer my question?" 

"I want — how much have you enjoyed being on your knees?" 

Porthos gives him a long look, sharp and bright. It's measuring, too, and *deep*, and — 

And Treville leaves himself open for it, just — 

"We're not just talking about my smart mouth, yeah?" 

"No. We're not." 

Porthos nods slowly. "I've mostly done it the other way round, then."

Treville breathes, and breathes, and wants every ounce of this boy's phenomenal power in his hands. In *his* power. 

"'m willing to make an exception." 

Treville exhales, and he can't stop a small sound from coming out with it. "Are you." 

"Yeah —" 

"'Yes, sir.'" 

"Oh — yeah?" 

Treville swallows and nods. 

Porthos nods back. "Then — yes, sir. I'm willing." 

Fuck — 

Treville leans in and *bites* Porthos's throat — 

"Oh — shit — shit, sir, that's good —" 

Treville *sucks* — 

And Porthos moans, rolling his hips forward — 

Giving himself — 

No, wait, *wait* — 

Treville drops his hands to Porthos's hips and squeezes firmly — 

"Oh —" 

And then he pulls back enough to meet Porthos's eyes. "Do you — give me your ground rules. Please do it now."

"Or else, sir?" And Porthos is grinning, happy, pleased — 

He's not so dark that his cheeks don't show a pink flush — 

His mouth is — 

Treville kisses him again, and again — 

"*Mm* —" 

Treville drives him back against the wall, rolling his own hips, grinding — 

Treville bites his lips, sucks them — 

"Yeah — oh — fuck — yes, sir, yes, sir —" 

Treville *shoves* his hips against Porthos's — 

"*Fuck* —" 

And then he can pull back. "Tell me. Your rules." 

Porthos laughs and rolls his head against the wall. "Right, all right, yes, sir, anything you say, sir. You can't tie me up, and stop means stop. We set?" 

Treville growls — 

Porthos winces — "I know — I know how to make it *seem* like I'm tied-up —" 

"I don't need that, it's not —" 

"Then —" 

"No, it's —" Treville growls again, stepping back and stripping off his own shirt. "Your rules are fine. I'd expected more. I..." He shakes his head and presses close, grips Porthos's strong wrists, raises them above his head. "Leave them there." 

"Yes, sir —" 

"Step forward a little, keeping your upper body against the — there, that's it. You're perfect. You're beautiful." 

"Am I like your other boys, sir?" 

"A few, but not most," Treville says, answering honestly and cupping Porthos's lower back with one hand before stroking the long and honestly *rangy* — even at *his* age — expanse of torso. "You're bigger. Taller. Harder." 

"Darker, sir?" 

"I don't discriminate that way... as a general rule." 

"Really, now. Uh. Sir." 

Treville laughs and pinches Porthos's left nipple — 

"Nnh — oh — *shit* —" 

"Is it too hard?" 

"I — the pain isn't —" 

"Is it too hard." 

Porthos opens his eyes wide — and studies him for a deep and *rapid* moment. "I — yes, sir. It normally wouldn't be —" 

"But you're more sensitive right now," Treville says, and slowly eases the pressure. "Everywhere?" 

Porthos pants — "Yeah. Yes, sir. 'm always — I wasn't expecting to *be* this drunk on just — I mean, we *ate* —" 

"The sparkling wine can hit people... differently," Treville says, smiling and soothing Porthos's nipple. "How's that?" 

"Yeah, that's — mm. That's good, sir. Does it hit you differently?" 

"Yes. It makes me randier." 

Porthos snorts. "Now you're tempting me to pour more down your gullet, sir." 

"Did you want to be ravished?" 

"That would certainly be *new*," Porthos says, and snorts — 

"I want to fuck you until we're both howling for it," Treville says, and *pins* Porthos with another look — 

*Holds* him with it as he rubs both nipples with his calluses, back and forth and back again — 

Again — 

"Sir — fuck — *fuck* —" 

"You don't spend a lot of time on your knees." 

"No — sir —" 

"Does that mean you also don't get fucked very often? I already know you've been taking a break from selling yourself." And Treville keeps working those nipples — 

Rubbing them hot and tight and *swollen* — 

Porthos *pants* — 

"Sir — I — I get fingered —" 

"But no cocks?"

"No, sir —" 

"For how long?" 

"I — " And Porthos moans long and low, arching into Treville's touch. 

"Good boy." 

"Fuck — *fuck* —" 

"Answer me." 

"Months, sir — almost a year —" 

Treville makes a soft, appreciative noise. "You've left yourself fresh for me. Good boy." 

"*Shit* —" 

"How do you like it on your knees so far?"

Porthos laughs explosively, eyes bright and narrow. "I'm — 'm reserving *judgment*, sir —" 

"You do that," Treville says, and dips a finger in Porthos's navel — 

"*Oh* —" 

"Do you like that?" 

""s a bit a weird — I've done it to other people —" 

"People you've had on their knees." 

"I — yeah, sir — yes, sir —" 

"Do you want to suck my cock?" 

Porthos takes a shuddering breath and gives him a wide-eyed look. "I do, sir —" 

"You can't, yet." 

"*Fuck* —" 

Treville laughs and kisses Porthos softly, wetly — 

Again — 

Again — "I'm a bastard." 

"That you are, sir —" 

"But I'm the bastard who's going to make you spend repeatedly." 

Porthos gasps. "'m all right with that, sir —" 

"Good," Treville says, and steps back. 

"Wait —" 

"Shh. Don't make demands. Don't give me orders." 

"Fuck — sorry — yes, sir —" 

"You're forgiven," Treville says, and looks Porthos over, looks — absolutely nothing like his fill. "Touch yourself." 

Porthos is greedy about it, open, dragging his big, rough hands all over himself — 

Scratching at his abdomen — 

Plucking at the hair growing in a trail — 

A teasing trail — 

Cupping at his pectoral muscles and squeezing hard, and not ignoring his arms, his throat, his face — 

He's touching himself like a desperate lover, like — 

Precisely like Treville wants to touch him. 

Probably precisely like Treville *has* been touching him, and — 

And it's no surprise that he's sweating for this, that he's *aching* for this — "Stop. That was perfect." 

Porthos licks his lips. "Was it, sir?" 

"Oh, yes," Treville says, and drags his thumb through the spit on Porthos's lips. "You're going to get a reward for it." 

Porthos grunts — 

"Beautiful. Open your trousers; let them fall." 

"Yes, sir," Porthos says, and obeys. 

Like most of him, his legs below his breeches — which are a bit too short — aren't *especially* hairy. Just enough to speak a little about a father — and it would've been a father — whose skin was undoubtedly as pale as Treville's own, whose hair was as straight...

And there's something like a twinge for that at the back of his thoughts, something a part of his mind feels like the rest should be thinking about — 

Something important —

But Treville's mind has been doing that for days, and then immediately leading him down maudlin paths full of the Captain, about Kitos, about Reynard. 

He doesn't have to go any of those places right now. 

He can give himself the — still small — slick spot on on Porthos's breeches — 

He can give himself the boy's impressive *bulge*, like so — 

"Nnh —" 

"Do you like to be touched gently here, too?" 

"When — when I'm drunk, sir —" 

"Not other times?" And Treville strokes Porthos through his breeches once — 

Twice — 

"Just when you're drunk?" And he strokes again — 

Porthos groans *loudly* — "Sir, I — sir — fuck — fuck — please let me take these —" 

"Answer." 

"I take — take a hard squeeze, a rough stroke —" 

"A slap?" 

"Just — fuck — only when I want to give my woman something -- something to do that's worth a really *hard* punishment, please, sir --" 

Treville steps back — 

Porthos slumps — 

"Trousers and breeches *off*." 

"*Thank* you, sir —" 

"You punish your lover for doing what you want her to do?" 

Porthos pauses and *looks* at Treville. "Only when she wants me to do just that, *sir*. And we're leaving that there, because she doesn't belong in this room." 

Treville — wants more than that. 

He would've *had* more than that — but. 

Porthos isn't his brother. 

Not even his *little* brother. 

Porthos isn't even his *boy* — 

He has to accept. 

He has to — 

He has to *slam* Porthos's naked, finally *naked* body against the wall — 

"*Fuck* —" 

He has to *grip* at the beat of his heart through his already-powerful chest, at his rock-hard and thick and beautiful and *undoubtedly* still-growing *cock* — 

"Treville —" 

"That's not what you call me, son," Treville says, and starts stroking Porthos easy, sweet, gentle — 

"Oh — shit — *sir* —" 

"Better. Again," Treville says, and watches Porthos's face for every reaction as he tries slow twists — 

Tugs on his long foreskin — 

Careful squeezes — 

"Please, sir!" 

"Even better," Treville says, and squeezes again — 

"Shit — *shit* —" 

"I can feel your heart pounding, Porthos..." 

"Oh — fuck, of course you can, sir!" 

"I can feel it — mm. Almost *in* my hand." 

"*Fuck*, that's — gruesome," Porthos says, and they laugh together — 

And Treville squeezes Porthos's cock again — 

"Oh — *nnh* —" 

"You're going to spend for me, you know." 

"Yeah — yeah, sir — *yes*, I mean —" 

"You're going to get me wet, and slick, and *dirty*." 

Porthos gasps and *grunts* — "Sir — sir, you're — really good at this —" 

"Thank you. Do you want to fuck my hand, son?" 

Porthos groans and tosses his head a little, clutching at his own hands above his head — "That's sodding *dirty*, sir —" 

"Do you?" 

"Yes, sir!" 

"Do it. Nice and slow." 

Porthos moans and obeys, breaking out in fresh sweat nearly immediately — 

"You smell delicious..." 

"Ah, fuck —" 

"I want to drink you like wine." 

"Ah, *fuck*," Porthos says, and thrusts *hard* — 

"No, slower. More gentle." 

"Yes, sir, sorry — *fuck* —" 

"Do you like it on your knees?" 

"I'm — 'm —" 

"Reserving judgment. All right. Fuck me. Fuck my hand, son." 

"Oh — *fuck*, that's —" 

"Dirty? Wrong?" Treville grins and squeezes a little harder. "There have to be some benefits to getting older." 

Porthos laughs hard — 

Moans — 

And obeys, grinding up and *into* Treville's fist — 

Again — 

Again — 

"*Please*, sir —" 

"Please what?" 

"*Shit* — I — I *do* that —" 

"Yes?" 

"I *say* that," Porthos says, panting and sweating and *laughing* — 

"I'm sure you do. But please *what*." 

"Please — squeeze me harder, sir. A little — I mean —" 

"Like this?"

Porthos's knees buckle — but only for a moment before he gets control of himself, pressing himself against the wall and — 

Blowing like a horse. Treville licks his lips — 

"Sorry — sorry, sir —" 

"Don't apologize for that." 

"I —" 

"Don't. Apologize for that," Treville says, and starts to toss Porthos off in-between squeezes — 

Porthos *shouts* — 

"Yes, do that, instead..." 

"*Sir* —" 

"You need to spend, don't you, son." 

"Yeah — *yes*, sir, yes —" 

"You need to spend all over both of us, don't you." 

"*Please*, yes, sir —" 

"You need to give it up for me. Don't you." 

"For — for —" 

"For me," Treville says, quiet and calm, and squeezes just a little bit harder — 

Porthos throws his head back and whimpers — 

"Beautiful. Do that again." 

"Sir. Sir, I —" 

Treville squeezes again — 

Porthos *whimpers* again — 

"Good boy. Perfect," Treville says, pressing Porthos harder against the wall when his knees start to shake — 

"Shit — *shit* —" 

"Shh, it's all right. You're going to spend for me." 

"Yeah — yes —" 

"You need to." 

"Yes, sir —" 

"For me." 

And Porthos looks at him then, clear-eyed for a moment, wide-eyed and so beautiful, so — "For you, sir." 

Treville's cock twitches *violently* — "Good *boy*," he says — *growls* —

"Fuck —" 

— and strokes Porthos fast, *fast*, using every bit of slick he's putting out to make it sweet, too, if not *quite* gentle — 

"Sir —" 

"Do you like it?" 

"Yes — yes, sir —" 

"Take it." 

"*Fuck* — please — please don't stop —" 

"I won't." 

"Fuck, fuck —" 

"You're going to spend for me, son," Treville says, and strokes faster — 

"Yes — sir —" 

"When?" 

"Fuck, *soon* —" 

"Make it now." 

"Wha —" 

"Don't make me wait for it. Give it to me now."

"Sir — I don't —" 

"*Now*." 

And Porthos's eyes are wide and nearly *blank* as he slams his head back against the wall — and then he squeezes them shut and *groans*, loud and desperate, as his cock spurts all over both of them. 

"Beautiful." 

"Unh —" 

"Don't stop." 

"*Unh* —" 

And Treville laughs and strokes up and up and into those beautiful curls with his free hand — 

Grips and *pulls* Porthos into a kiss — 

Porthos spurts *more* — and kisses back like an *innocent* boy, clumsy and eager and needy all at once. 

Treville gentles him through it, petting and kissing softly, kissing deeply and hungrily — 

No, wait, he doesn't want — but Porthos is moaning even more, *accepting* even more — 

Sliding down the wall on shaky legs — 

Treville grips his hair tight and pulls out of the kiss. "Not yet."

"Nnh — no? No, sir?" 

"Tell me how you like being on your knees."

"I sodding love it, sir, let me —" 

"Shh. Have you ever wanted to be a soldier?" 

Porthos stares at him. 

Treville grins. "I'll make it worth your while..." 

Porthos stares at him *wide*-eyed — but only for a moment before a vast, cruel wall comes down behind his eyes. 

"Porthos —" 

"I think you should just let me suck you off, sir." 

"What did I —" 

"I think that would be a *better* use of your *sodding* *time*." 

That — "You're angry." 

Porthos doesn't say anything. He doesn't *have* to. 

Treville forces himself to take a breath and step *back*, letting go of Porthos and — no, start there. "I didn't want to let go of you, just then." 

Porthos lifts his chin. 

"I *know* I've hacked you off in one way or another, but the following things are true: I'm a bloody mess. I haven't told you any lies. I will *not* tell you any lies. I am not in the line of playing games with the minds of the people I fuck. I don't *fence*. I'm not good at it. If I'm going to pull my sword, I'm going to do my best to *murder* you with it — I'm not going to play any bloody games. Now. Is any of that *helpful*?" 

Porthos frowns, but the hard wall behind his face cracks a little. "You — you *said* it. You're a *mess*. You don't know what you're offering, or who you're offering it to." 

"One, yes I do know what I'm offering. Two, help me know him. Because everything I've seen..." And Treville lifts his hands to cover his face — and snorts. 

"Yeah, you might want to do something about that first," Porthos says. 

"That I might," Treville says, and sucks and licks his slick-sticky hand clean — 

Clean *enough* — 

And he doesn't take his eyes off Porthos for one moment. 

Especially not when he shivers and shifts on his big, graceful feet. 

When Treville pulls his fingers out with a slurp — 

"Look — sir." 

"I'm listening." 

"You're trying to tell me that you're not — not *joking* —": 

"I am." 

"That it's not your bloody *prick* telling you —" 

"It isn't." 

"— that you can have a bloody catamite —" 

Treville snorts. And looks at Porthos. 

And Porthos flushes and scratches at the back of his neck. "Well, 's not like you *know* how much bigger 'm going to get —" 

"I have a fair idea, now that I've seen your thighs and shoulders." 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

Treville narrows his eyes and smiles exactly like the predator he is. "You're going to be magnificent." 

"And what are you going to do then, eh? You like *boys* —" 

"And I love men," Treville says, and — lets that sit there. 

For a moment, they only stare at each other, but... it's the wrong sort of stare. 

Porthos's upset — his *sadness* — is clear, now that he's not hiding it with anger. 

Now that he *can't* hide it that way. 

Treville moves close, stepping on the knot of Porthos's trousers and breeches and encouraging him to step out of them. 

Cupping the back of his head — 

Nuzzling his soft nose and softer lips — 

"Sir..." 

"The last time I hoped for something, truly hoped for something, I had woken up to find my Reynard up and out of his sickbed. Dressed in his leathers — they hung on him worse than mine are hanging on me tonight, but still — and striding about his rooms like the healthiest possible man. 

"There was, perhaps, a little *too* much colour in his cheeks, and his energy was on the frenetic side, but he was eating, and drinking, and laughing, and not *coughing*." 

Porthos inhales sharply. "This was... six years ago? The fall?" 

And of course — "You lost someone during that — that —" 

"Two people. Friends. I — fuck. Your man started coughing again that night, yeah?" 

"Almost as soon as the moon rose. We. We told ourselves that it was because he'd talked too much that day..." 

"Oh... sir." 

Treville smiles wryly. "You told yourself the same thing? About your friends?" 

"Yeah. I did. Well, about the first friend — Didier. By the time Jeanne was dancing about like she had wings, well. We all knew what it was. That it was just the last cruel twist." 

Treville nods. "Yes. That," he says, and kisses Porthos softly again — 

"Sir —" 

"I'm not cruel." 

"No — I — I know —" 

"I don't... I wouldn't dangle something *desired* in front of a man only to yank it away." 

Porthos inhales sharply again — 

"And that's what you thought I was doing. What I was *going* to do. Right?" 

Porthos doesn't say anything for long moments — "You're drunk and grieving, sir. We don't — none of us knows what we're doing, times like these." 

"I'm risking my position as one of the most powerful men in France so I can spend all night fucking a ridiculously beautiful and brilliant boy —" 

"'m not —" 

"Shh." 

"Sir —" 

"Be quiet now, Porthos," Treville says, and squeezes the back of Porthos's head — 

The subtle curve of his hip — 

"Listen to me," he says, and kisses him softly again. 

Porthos shivers again. "Yes, sir." 

"Seducing you — *attempting* to seduce you — into walking into the garrison whenever you sober up is the most intelligent thing I've done tonight *other* than stick my nose in Baril's business in the first place. Think about it." 

Porthos swallows — 

Treville tilts Porthos's head back and *sucks* his Adam's apple — 

"That — that won't let me think, sir — *fuck* —" 

Treville slurps his way off. "My apologies," he says, and *nibbles* at Porthos's Adam's apple — 

At the thick, strong tendons — 

At the sweaty hollows of his throat — 

Porthos moans *loudly* — 

"Beautiful boy..." 

"Please — please, sir —" 

"*Think*." 

"If — if I'm a prospective Musketeer, then — people don't *have* to assume you're a buggerer!" 

"Exactly," Treville says, and kisses him hard — 

"Mm —" 

And pulls back. "Good boy. *Smart* boy." 

"Fuck — look, that doesn't — it doesn't make this any —" 

"Are you assuming I won't make you work for it, Porthos...?" 

Porthos *grunts* — "You — what?" 

"A big, strong, smart, *vicious* boy with a taste for humiliating his enemies..." 

"Yeah — yeah, and I —" 

"And you can walk away from bar fight after bar fight after *bar* fight with just a few bruises and scratches — you've hardly any severe scars, at all —" 

"I —" 

"— and we both know those men you humiliated had friends sometimes. Don't we." 

"Yes, sir, they *did* —" 

"And they were doing their best to break up all this property *on* you. Weren't they." 

"Yes, sir —" 

"But you were just too good for them," Treville says, and licks his lips. Slowly. 

Porthos takes a shuddering breath and — lifts his chin. "Yes, sir. I was." 

"You *are*." 

"I — I *am*, sir —" 

"You'll teach my other men how to be that good." 

"What — what?" 

"A sword is a brilliant weapon — when you have the space to use it. A gun is the best tool we've ever created — when you have bullets. What do you have without those things?" 

"*Knives*!" 

Treville barks a laugh and grins. "And without those, son?" 

And Porthos stares at him for another long moment. This time... 

This time he looks *significantly* younger than his age. Treville waits him out. 

"You're... saying I can be useful." 

"Yes." 

"To — that I wouldn't just be — a bloody *burden* —" 

"Exactly. Though anyone who treats as promising a student as you like a burden needs to have his bollocks nailed to a chair." 

Porthos *coughs* — 

And Treville raises an eyebrow. 

And Porthos — swallows. "You're saying I can do this. That I can. That I can have this." 

"Yes." Though I won't be able to have you, if you take this offer. 

Porthos narrows his eyes. "What — what was that?" 

"It —" 

"Don't bloody say *nothing*, Treville —" 

Treville moves his hand from Porthos's hip to his mouth. "The first time you call me sir as my subordinate will be the last time you call me sir in any other context." 

Porthos takes a breath and studies him — but not for long. "But you're still offering this." 

"I am." 

"You still want —" 

"I do." 

Porthos's expression turns quirked. "You know, I actually am a *good* fuck, mate." 

Treville blinks — and splutters. 

And Porthos smiles, easy and open and beautiful.


	3. It's Less A Job Interview Than An Invitation To Be My New Brother-Son-Husband-Friend. Person.

Treville doesn't bother to repress a swallow, or the need to trace Porthos's features. 

To give himself *this* — 

This beautiful, incredible — 

"You don't have to use that gorgeous pistol of yours to shoot yourself in the bloody prick, you know," Porthos says, and Treville can hear shades of the man he'll become. 

Low-voiced. 

Gentle. 

Utterly capable of caring for — *encompassing* — his loved ones. 

Treville opens his mouth to begin the sentence 'the number of times I woke up — muzzy-headed, still drunk, and absolutely some degree of curled in Kitos's powerful arms as his low, rumbling snores threatened to take me right back under —' 

And then he remembers it would be a non sequitur, and stops. 

Stops. 

"Sir?" 

Yes, that. Just that. Help me be the Captain, because — 

"Or *should* I call you that? Is it what you really want?" 

— I can't do it without help. Not at all. 

Treville laughs softly and kisses Porthos again, again — "I thought we'd established that —" 

"Not — not that. I mean. Part of me thinks I'm mad, but *most* of me believes you just fine about you... about you wanting me to be, you know —" 

"A Musketeer," Treville says, slowly and firmly — and only *somewhat* to see Porthos blush again. 

To see him lick his soft lips. 

"Right — right. But —" 

"Don't backslide —" 

"'m not, I *promise*. I just mean — tonight. What d'you really want *tonight*, eh?" 

Treville frowns. "Have I *not* been clear?" 

"You've been clear about a *lot* of things, *Treville*. Starting with how much you miss... were they your family?" 

"I. Yes, but —" 

"Maybe... maybe like your brothers?" 

"Not — not *like* —" 

"Then they were your brothers *period*. Even your old boss, yeah?" 

Treville swallows. "Yes. My — he taught me... everything." 

"Yeah, eh? Including how to give yourself things with one hand and take them away with the other?" 

Treville... stares. 

"I mean, you *know* that's what you're doing, right?" 

"Are you a thing I can give myself —" 

"*Fuck*, no. But — you know what I *mean*," Porthos says, and his voice moves higher with frustration. "Don't you?" 

Treville presses close — 

Presses them to the wall — 

*Holds* them there — 

"Fuck, you're strong —" 

"I can't. I can't have you. Not truly." 

"No, I know. I figured it out already, y'know. What flies in the Court really *doesn't* outside of it. Just — in all *sorts* of ways. But it's not like I need you to parade me about in public and take me to balls and shite like that." 

"You'll have to go to balls anyway, to —" 

"*Really*? To do bloody *what*?" 

Treville grins helplessly. "You'll be guarding the King's person and interests." 

"Oh. Oh. *Shit*." 

"Yes —" 

"Well — but, that's different —" 

"It is —" 

"'s not like me walking into your office — d'you have an office?" 

"Yes —" 

"'s not like me walking into your office and swallowing your prick, maybe bending over your desk and really sodding *taking* it after you've had a hard day —" 

"Fuck — don't —" 

"Heh. Are you sure about that? I think maybe you need to have some *good* thoughts about your new job, mate."

"I'm going to have you. That's more than good enough." 

Another blush — 

Treville narrows his eyes and growls, leaning in for a kiss — 

"So have me." 

Treville *grunts* — "Porthos —" 

"Those other men — and boys?" 

"There are... there are boys —" 

"They think you're hard, don't they? They think you don't need a damned thing," Porthos says, and licks the left corner of Treville's mouth — 

"I — I have to —" 

"I know a little about how command works," he says, and licks the right corner, sucks Treville's lower lip — 

They're staring into each other's eyes — 

And then Porthos pulls off with a slurp. "I'll keep your secrets. Sir." 

And the heat for that — 

The urge to *take* - 

He's already *kissing* Porthos, shoving him hard against the wall and all but climbing down his throat — 

Fucking his mouth with his tongue — 

Grinding against his cock with his own clothed one — 

*Wanting* — 

Pulling back to bite his cheeks, his jaw — 

His chin where it's fuzziest — 

"Aw, yeah, yeah, *do* it —" 

Treville *pants* against Porthos's throat — 

Tries to *think* — 

Tries to — to do anything but — 

"You need someone to keep your secrets, sir —" 

"I — I — *Porthos* —" 

"You need someone who actually knows the real you, and can talk to *that* man, and touch him, touch him all over..." 

And — it hits. 

It — 

Treville steps back — 

"Oi, wait —" 

"You're — trying to be. Useful." 

Porthos freezes, behind his eyes — but only for a moment. "I'm *trying* to bloody seduce you into taking what you actually *want*." 

Treville nods slowly. "You'll be useful — incredibly so — long before you ever learn swords and guns, Porthos." 

"I — I'm not —" 

"You are." 

"*Treville* —" 

"Let's. Be honest with each other," Treville says, and feels the ground fall away beneath his feet. 

Porthos takes a quick, sharp breath. "I — yeah?" 

It's the only way. "Yes." 

Porthos licks his lips. "Then — fine. Of course I want insurance." 

Treville's heart — hurts. 

"But that doesn't mean I don't want *you*." 

"Porthos —" 

Porthos catches Treville's left wrist just before Treville grips Porthos's throat with his right hand. 

It. 

"Well, you're *exactly* as trusting as you should be, I'd wager," Porthos says, grinning and dragging Treville's left hand down — to his hard cock. "Go on. Say something *dirty*. See what happens." 

"Dirty, Porthos?" 

"Nasty. Wrong. *Fucked*. Whatever. So long as it's *honest*." 

This — 

This isn't — 

But. 

"You've spent the day training," Treville says, because he has to. "You're sweat-soaked. Rank. Gritty. *Filthy*. You tell everyone that you still have a few extra lessons with me. You don't specify in what. Everyone commiserates with you over what a bastard I am —" 

"Oh —" 

"Shh. You come to my office, trudging up the stairs with anything but eagerness. You knock. I order you in." 

"Yeah —" 

"Shh." 

And Porthos's cock — twitches. It — 

He — 

"You get down on your *knees*," Treville *growls* — 

"Yeah, yeah, I do —" 

"I don't make you wait for my cock —" 

"Oh — fuck — please —" 

"I fuck your mouth while I molest your sweaty hair. I order you to keep your hands behind your *back* —" 

"Please, fuck, *please*, sir, d'you *feel* me?" 

"*Yes*," Treville says, and starts to *work* Porthos's cock — 

"Oh fuck —" 

"I fuck your *throat*, grinding in until your mouth is swollen, red, sore. It doesn't take long. Nothing takes long — I've been dreaming about you all day." 

"Yeah —" 

"I've been *watching* you all day. Watching you get faster, stronger, better. *Harder*."

"I — I — *please* —" 

"Knowing you'd still be coming to me at the end of the day. Knowing you'd still be on your bloody *knees* —" 

"*Fuck* — no, wait —" 

But Treville steps back and back, sniffing his musky-slick hand, licking and biting it — "Bedroom." 

"Right, I —" 

"Bring the oil." 

"What — I — *really*?" 

Treville licks his teeth. "You're going to enjoy it, son. And I'm going to enjoy eating it out of your arse." 

"*Fuck*, right, anything you say," Porthos says, and grabs the oil carefully, holding it precisely as if he has some idea what it costs — 

"We're going to have to get your arse in shape, Porthos..." And Treville keeps walking backwards toward the bedroom. 

"We — uh. Yeah?" 

"You know — or do you? It takes some practice for a man to take a good, hard fuck *every* day —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"— and still be able to train hard," Treville says, and *shows* his teeth. 

"Know a bit about that, do you?" 

"Only in my dreams, son. There was a *remarkable* dearth of buggerers about to do for my arse when I was young and slightly less likely to frighten small children with my countenance —" 

Porthos snorts. "You're not *ugly*." 

"No, that was Kitos. But he was beautiful, anyway. Shone with a light —" Treville growls and stops himself. "I'm sorry —" 

"Don't stop! Talk about him, about all of them," Porthos says, following Treville in and setting the oil down on the bedside table. "Get it out, yeah?" 

"Did you think I'd let you off the hook if I felt *better*, Porthos?" 

"Well, seeing as how I haven't even *seen* the hook in question..." 

Treville *coughs* — 

Porthos winks. "You've spent too bloody long with people who — for whatever sodding reason — made you think they didn't want you." 

"They —" 

"They're not sodding here. *I* am," Porthos says, and reaches slowly for Treville's trousers — 

Treville takes a breath — "No — no." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

Treville laughs. "Not yet. The discomfort is helping me keep my control. Do you never...?" 

"I do, yeah. I always hoped I'd have more *natural* control by the time I was your age." 

"Mm. You will," he says, and taps the side of the bed. "Plant your hands here." 

"Oh — shit. All right," Porthos says, and does it. 

"You'll have so much more control than you have now that it will be a little frightening, at times," Treville says, and strokes over and over Porthos's back. 

"I — yeah?" 

"You'll feel like less of a man. You'll question your capacity for *passion*." 

"I can't imagine you questioning *anything* like that —" 

"Thank you," Treville says, and kisses between Porthos's shoulder blades. 

Porthos shivers — 

"You'll stop questioning one day." 

"Y-yeah?" 

"When you meet someone who has the world in their eyes," Treville says, and bites — 

Porthos gasps — 

"When you meet someone who sees right through you in an instant — but still treats you like you're worth their time," he says, and bites again — 

Again — 

"Please —" 

Again — 

"Fuck, sir —" 

Treville bites Porthos's shoulders *hard* — 

"Oh — oh, *yeah* —" 

"You like that." 

"Yeah —" 

"One knee on the bed, between your arms." 

"Yeah — yes, sir —" And Porthos obeys — and *shouts* when Treville uses the better angle to bite the back of his neck — 

And hold it — 

And *hold* it — 

Growl and *hold* it — 

"Ah — ah, *fuck*, you're making me so *hard*, sir —" 

Treville pulls off with a slurp. "All the way onto the bed. Crawl." 

"*Yes*, sir," Porthos says, crawling immediately, and the way his young, taut muscles flex and work — 

The way the puppy fat on his arse jiggles just that little bit — or. 

Will he *be* that kind of large man? 

Will he have a soft and warm layer of fat over his muscle for all his days and — 

Treville is growling again — 

Porthos moans. "Please — *please*."

"I don't want to *rush* —" 

"You need me to *take* it, 's all right, just do it it, do everything —" 

Treville growls *more* and crawls on after Porthos, spreading him wide and kissing his hole — 

"Ah, *fuck*!" 

And he can't even laugh, can't joke, can't tease, can't do anything but moan and suck, lick, *fuck* that tight-clenching hole with his tongue — 

"Sir — *fuck*, sir — ahn — oh, *fuck* —" 

Spread him wider — 

"*God* — *fuck* —" 

Lick his whole sweaty cleft, and he's entirely hairless here, just a little swollen behind his bollocks — 

Treville sucks and nibbles there — 

Just a little *hard* — 

Porthos cries out — 

Treville sucks *harder* — 

Porthos *sobs* — 

And Treville kisses his way back to that hole and kisses it just like a mouth he wants to tease, makes love to it, works it and nuzzles — 

"Your — ah, fuck, your *beard* —" 

And *that's* worth a laugh — 

"You — you *bastard* — *UNH* — oh — oh, *fuck*!" 

It never fails to suck at the rim of a flexing little hole, a clenching, dripping little hole, and yes, he's drooling all over it — 

Slurping up his own spit only to leave more — 

To fuck more *in* — 

"Ohn — fuck — *fuck* —" 

And Porthos beats at the bed once — 

Again — 

And then over and over again as Treville fucks him with his tongue, has him, *has* him, and he's so hard, so needy, so *hungry* — 

So — 

The sheer *number* of times he's had a boy in just this position — 

The sheer number of times he's *used* this act to *convince* a boy who needed convincing — 

Porthos sobs — 

Porthos doesn't need convincing, at all. 

Porthos needs pleasure, deserves pleasure, every bit of it Treville can give — 

He sucks a *kiss* — 

Porthos sobs *again* — 

And then there's the unmistakable sound of a fist *working* a cock, of a boy too needy to *wait*. 

The part of Treville which wants to punish for that — 

Which wants to make Porthos *ache* — 

He doesn't know if it's a part worth listening to or not. 

He doesn't know — 

He's so *bloody* hard, and he needs — 

This. 

Kissing this boy's salty, musky, soft and hard and *beautiful* arse again and again — 

"Sir —" 

Making him — 

"*Sir*, *fuck* —" 

Making him need this the way Treville does, the way — 

"You're — fuck, I feel so *open*, so *loose* —" 

Treville groans like he's been *stabbed* and fucks Porthos's arse *hard* with his tongue, hard as he can, fucks him fast — 

"Oh — oh, yeah — oh, *yeah* — fuck me, just *fuck* me —" 

And Treville feels himself flushing hard, deep — 

He's *gripping* Porthos's arse — 

"I *want* it — fuck — you — *please*, sir —" 

And Treville *growls* — 

Porthos cries *out* — 

Treville pulls back — 

"No, don't — fuck — I mean — *do*," Porthos says, laughing and *gripping* at the duvet with one hand while he *strips* his cock with the other — "Fuck, fuck, I'm so close —" 

"*Stop*." 

"What — *fuck* —" And Porthos *yanks* his hand away from his cock and whines — 

And *chokes* on a laugh — 

"I didn't mean to make that bloody *sound* —" 

"You made me harder when you did..." 

And Porthos laughs again. "*Good*. Please. Please fuck me. Please just — you've got me feeling *loose*." 

"You're not," Treville says, and slicks three fingers on his right hand with the oil. 

Porthos moans. "Fuck, I know, I *know*, but — fuck, I've never *felt* —" 

"You've never been eaten out like that...?" 

"Not with that much *dedication* to a job well *done*, sir," Porthos says, laughing again. "D'you want me to spread myself? Make it easier?" 

Treville groans as his cock twitches — "Do it. Do it for me." 

"Anything you say," Porthos says, dropping down onto his left elbow and reaching back to spread himself with his right hand — 

"I've left you wet..." 

"Yeah, you did! Please feel free to do that *often* — *nnh* —" 

"And this?" And Treville rubs at Porthos's hole with two slick fingers. "Should I do this often?" 

"Uhh..." 

Treville laughs. "Do you need to think about it?" 

"Mm... uhh..." 

"Do you need me to do *this*?" And Treville *pushes* in with his two fingers — 

Porthos *gasps* — 

"Hm? Do you?" 

"Oh... shit..." And Porthos groans and pants and hangs his head — 

"Do you need it, son?" 

"Yeah — I — yes, sir —" 

"Do you need to be fucked?" 

And Porthos clenches *tight* around Treville's fingers — 

"*Open*." 

"I — I —" 

"Open your *arse* for me, son." 

Porthos *flexes* open and whines again, whimpers — "Shit — *fuck* —" 

Treville *crooks* his fingers — 

And Porthos *shouts* — 

Treville feels his skin prickle with flush — 

Feels himself *burn* with it, need — 

Feels his cock *ache* — 

"Please, more, sir!" 

He crooks again — 

Porthos throws his head back and *yells* — 

"You're close, aren't you. Aren't you, son." 

"Yeah — fuck, *yeah* —" 

"You're going to spend for me again." 

"*Please*, sir —" 

"Please what." 

"Ah, *shit* —" 

"Please *what*," Treville says, and starts tugging his fingers free — 

"No, don't!" 

"What did we say about *demands*, son?" 

"Fuck, *fuck* — 'm sorry! 'm bloody *sorry*! Just — I want to be fucked! I want you to fuck me, sir, I want — oh, fuck — oh, God — oh, God, your bloody *fingers* —" 

"Do you see how easy that was?" 

"Unh — I —" And Porthos groans again, claws at the duvet, grips it in his fist — 

"Put your head down." 

"On — on —" 

"Cheek to the duvet. Right — oh. Good boy..." 

Porthos clenches *tight* again — 

"I'm going to fuck you hard every time you do that," Treville says, and *demonstrates* — 

Porthos *sobs* — 

Sniffles — 

"*Please*!" 

"Please *what*." 

"Please don't stop! Please keep — keep —" 

"Fucking you, son?"

"Oh — *shit* — *yes* —" 

"Fucking you *hard*?" And Treville *grips* Porthos's hip with his other hand, urges him to work himself *into* the thrusts — 

Porthos whimpers *high* — 

"That's beautiful, son, do it *again*," he says, and *pulls* Porthos into his next thrust — 

And the next — 

And the *next* — 

Porthos sobs and *yanks* at the duvet — 

"Spend." 

"Sir —" 

"Do it," Treville says, and crooks — 

Porthos *screams* — 

Treville *rubs* at his pleasure-button — 

Fucks him *with* his fingers crooked — 

"Sir — *sir*!" 

"Spend on my fingers, son. Spend *for* my fingers —" 

"I — sir — sir, I want — I need —" 

"You're so hard for me, and your bollocks are so *tight*..." 

"HNH —" 

"You want to spend, don't you?" 

"Yes, sir, please —" 

"You want to leave yourself even more open, even more *loose* —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"So I can *fuck* you good and hard —" 

"Fuck fuck I — *sir* —" 

"You want my cock so far up your arse you *choke* on it —" 

"HNH —" 

"You want me to ride you *down*. Don't you, son." 

"I — *please*! Please fuck — *fuck* —" 

"You obviously needed another finger, son. Take it." 

Porthos *whines*, high and sweet —

"There's my good boy, my big, strong, beautiful boy —" 

"Sir — sir —" 

"Does it hurt?" 

"Yeah —" 

"Do you like it?" 

"*God*, yeah!" And Porthos laughs, sobs and laughs more — 

"Do you need it?" 

"Yeah, I do, I do, and I'll — I'll fucking beg for it if — oh, *shit* —" 

"Beg for it *now*, son," Treville says, and *rocks* his fingers in — 

In — 

"Let me hear you." 

"*Please*, sir! Please don't stop fucking me! Please don't ever stop — *UNH* —" 

"Faster now. Take it." 

"Yes, sir — *yes*, sir —" 

"Do you need to stroke yourself?" 

"I — I don't know —" 

"Do it." 

"Yes, sir!" And Porthos balances on his own *face* as he reaches back with his left hand to awkwardly *work* his cock — "Ah — *God* — I — I can't —" 

"Let go." 

"Please —" 

"Let go and let me have *all* of you," Treville says, crooking *again* — 

Porthos *screams* — 

Drops his hand again — 

And Treville reaches round and *grips* Porthos's cock, giving him a rhythm of in and stroke and out and squeeze until Porthos is sobbing constantly, desperately, beautifully — 

"The *moment* you spend, I'm pulling out and shoving *in*." 

And Porthos *chokes* on a sob — 

His cock spasms in Treville's *hand* — 

And Porthos wails, young and high and sweet, so sweet as he spurts all over the duvet. 

Treville growls and can't — 

He can't keep himself from fucking Porthos harder, faster — 

Giving him everything he *can* — 

Porthos *screams* for him — 

Spurts *more* — 

Shudders like an even younger boy, smaller, colder — 

Treville will always keep him *warm* — 

"You're so *beautiful* —" 

"Fuck — sir, *please*!" 

Treville pants — 

Licks up some of the salty-wet sweat from Porthos's broad back — 

"Unh —" 

And then pulls out fast and steady, *steady* — 

"Oh, fuck, fuck, it feels like you had your whole sodding *hand* — 

"Do you need me to slow *down*." 

"No! Please! Please get *in* me, sir, please fuck me, please — oh, fuck, I've got bloody chills for it — *nuh* —" 

And Treville's all the way out, wiping his hands on the small, soft towel left conveniently by the bedside —

Opening his trousers and breeches at speed and getting them *enough* out of the way — 

Slicking himself with more oil — 

"You get to choose, son." 

"You — have I mentioned how sodding *dirty* that 'son' business is?" 

"You may have done. Fast or slow. Hard or gentle." 

"What — oh. Fuck. Fuck. You're going to do me sodding *vicious* once you're in, aren't you?" 

Treville grins. "That I am." 

Porthos swallows audibly and spreads himself wider — "Make me scream. Make me sodding howl the *house* down, *Daddy*." 

Treville *grunts* — 

Porthos laughs *evilly* — 

And so the only *possible* thing to do *is* slam in — 

Swallow his own gasps — 

His own — 

The way the light *explodes* behind his eyes — 

His — 

Porthos *is* howling, clenching tight and *howling* — 

Fuck — 

Oh, *fuck* — 

He's — 

"Hands *down*, son —" 

"Please —" 

"*Down*!" 

Porthos drops to his elbows — 

The angle-shift makes them both groan — 

Treville gasps again — 

Again — 

And then his hips are moving without his permission, he's — 

"Oh, *fuck*, sir —" 

"You knew what you were — what you were going to *get* —" 

Porthos sobs again and yanks up the duvet with both hands — 

"With your arse in the air —" 

Porthos clenches and sobs *again* — 

Treville thrusts *hard* — 

Porthos *yells* — 

Flexes open — 

Yells more — 

And Treville growls and starts to *take*, one thrust, one *shove* after another, riding his beautiful — 

But — 

No, he *is* his, he *is*, and — 

"Do you feel like my whore, son?" 

"*Shit* — fuck — *sir* —" 

"Do you want to? Mm? Do you want to feel like the dirty — dirty little whore I use and use and *use* until he can't bloody *walk*?" 

And Porthos drops his head, just like that — 

Porthos groans and sobs and — 

Takes it and — 

Takes every last *one* of Treville's vicious, yes, *vicious* thrusts and —

And drags his *face* against the duvet like — 

"Oh, you do, you do, good *boy*, son —" 

"*Please* —" 

"I'll use you every bloody *day*," Treville says, gripping Porthos's hips tight and grinding in, in, *in* — 

"Yeah — yes, sir —" 

"I'll make — make you *mine* —" 

"Oh, fuck —" 

"I'll pull you out of training, I'll — fuck, *clench*." 

"*Yes*, sir —" And Porthos obeys and sobs — 

And Treville *shoves* — 

In in in — 

"I'll — oh, your sweet *arse* —" 

And Porthos sobs *again* — 

"I'll take you when you're feeling — big. Strong. *Bold*. I'll. Mm. I'll wait until you're *sure* of yourself. Until you're — nnh. *Nnh*. Until you're *fucking* *strutting*," Treville says, and fucks his boy, fucks him hard, *hard* — 

Watches his eyes roll *up* — 

"Oh, *son*. I'll get you *then*. I'll pull you into the *dark*. And. And. I'll make you shove — get your trousers and breeches down just far *enough*. And then I'll push you — mm. Up against a wall. And slick. My. *Cock*. And *have* you." 

"Please —" 

"Hard, son." 

"*Please* —" 

"Until you're *hurting* for it —" 

"Oh, fuck — fuck, sir, *please*, I can't — I can't even sodding *see* —" 

"Until — until you spend in self-*defense*, sobbing and begging for *relief*. You'll feel like my whore *then*, son." 

Porthos groans and *drools* —

"And then I'll have you — *fuck* you — for just a little bit longer, while you're. You're. While you're quivering and loose and *aching*," Treville says, and reaches round to grip that cock again — 

Nice and hard — 

Nice and *hard* — "I'll stroke your beautiful *cock* --"

And Porthos *immediately* starts doing his best to work himself between Treville's cock and his hand — 

Trying to help, to take more, to *give* — 

"Oh, you perfect *fucking* boy. I'll fuck you even harder. Even — I'll fuck you. Just like *this*," he says, squeezing Porthos's cock *meanly* and giving it to him — 

And taking every *desperate* scream for his own — 

They're his. 

*His*. 

"My big boy. My *strong* boy. You never knew you could *love* this...." 

"No, sir!" 

"But — nnh. You're mine now. Aren't you." 

"Yes — *yes* —" 

"And that's what you'll know right then, in. Whatever little corner we make *reek* of our musk and *spend*, son." And Treville growls and *covers* Porthos — 

"*God* —" 

Bites his *neck* — 

"Yes — fuck —" 

And then licks it. "No matter how big you get. No matter how *strong*. You're mine. All mine. And you chose that for *yourself*," Treville says, grinding in and in and *in*, *shoving* in, *rutting* — 

Oh, just *rutting* — 

Tossing Porthos off and *rutting* — 

And every one of Porthos's desperate sobs and curses and groans and pleas and — 

It's his — 

It's the blood in his *veins* — 

It's the fire all *through* him when Porthos *howls* again and spends for him, cock *jerking* in Treville's fist as Treville *pounds* him through it, ragged and needy — 

Porthos is barely done *spurting* when Treville wraps his arms round his chest and squeezes him, holds him tight, fucks him like an *animal* — 

Porthos whimpers and *clenches* — 

And for a moment everything goes white behind Treville's eyes, everything — 

He has to bite, he has to ride, he has to *fuck* — 

He can feel his cock *spasming*, but he can't bloody *stop* — 

And he won't. 

He'll fill his boy *right* up — 

"Bloody *hell*, sir..."

He'll *jerk* for the *awe* in Porthos's voice, for the honest sense of being *impressed* — 

He can't stop himself from squeezing *harder* — 

He doesn't try. 

And he doesn't try to stop thrusting, either. 

He knows, from experience, that eventually his body will just give *up*.

... for the time being. 

But. 

He can keep holding on, and let his bites become kisses — 

More licks — 

More *sucks* — 

Such a delicious *boy* — 

And Porthos shudders then — 

Groans and shudders more — 

Opens his eyes — Treville can only see one. It's not focusing well. 

Treville strokes Porthos, massages where he can reach — 

Kneels up — 

Porthos squeezes his eyes shut and sobs again — 

"Shh, easy son. It's all right." 

"Yeah — yes, sir." 

Treville strokes Porthos's bruised and sweaty back. "I know you're hurting. I'll take care of you." 

"I... yes, sir?" And Porthos blinks his eyes open — 

Does his best to focus again? 

Treville hums. "I'm not in the way of starting a new relationship by leaving the other party *in* the relationship aching in *bad* ways, son." 

Porthos swallows. "It's — 's not *bad*. I mean. I can tell you didn't tear me or anything —" 

"Son. We both know there are many, many ways to ache." 

Porthos *pants* — 

Squeezes his eyes shut again — 

Moans *desperately* — 

"Shh. It's all right, son. You did wonderfully," Treville says, and keeps stroking, keeps petting. "And you've been entirely convincing." 

"I... uh." And Porthos laughs softly. 

"Yes?" 

"I don't even know what I was — what I'm — help?" 

"You're staying the night." 

'I — yeah?" 

"Yes. In the morning, you're coming to the garrison with me." 

"I — but I have to —" 

"Shh," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos's hips again — 

Porthos *grunts* — "Yes, sir." 

"There you are. You're coming to the garrison with me. Aren't you." 

"I'll — I'll do what you *say* — *fuck* —" 

"Say this." 

"'m — I'm coming to the garrison with you —" 

"You'll be given clothes to train in, and you will *begin* training." 

Porthos *moans* — "Yes, sir." 

"I'll be watching, off and on. Monitoring the progress of the new recruit. When I decide you're done for the day, I'll bring you to me. And then I'll have you again — slow this time, but still hard." 

Porthos clenches twice *fast* — 

Treville *growls* — 

"Sorry —" 

"Shh. Tell me." 

"I'll *train*. Until — until you decide I'm done. And then you'll have me. Slow and hard." 

"Good boy."

"Please, sir —" 

"Then — *then* — you'll be allowed to wash and return to the Court to wrap up your affairs —" 

"Sir — sir, I have a *lover*!" 

Does she make you feel like this...? No.

*No*. 

"While it sometimes seems that way, son, Musketeers do not serve *only* for the glory and *honor* of serving. There are men who take rooms away from the garrison." 

"Oh... oh. Truly, sir?" 

"Truly, son. You'll give your lover a better life."

"I. I want that very badly, sir," Porthos says, and squeezes his eyes shut again. 

"I'm sure she wants the same," Treville says, and goes back to stroking Porthos — and teaching himself patience. 

Married Musketeers are few and far between. 

Musketeers with long-term *lovers* are few and far between. 

Women grow impatient with men who can't be home with them for more than a few days at a time between missions — who can't stay to make *love* with them, much less to help make a home and family. 

Sooner or later, the lover his Porthos is so protective of will go the way all of Reynard's and Kitos's did. 

Certainly, none of them had been at the funerals. 

He — 

He doesn't want to think of funerals, right now. He doesn't — 

"Sir..." 

It's a relief on every level to drag himself *back*. "Porthos. Son. Tell me what you need." 

Porthos licks his lips. "I think. I think you told me a lie." 

Shit. 

"I can't tell where the lie *is*. I don't — I don't think I'm *thinking* right, yet — but... I can't. Please don't lie to me." 

"Son..." 

"Sir, *please*. I — we can take care of each other, yeah? You'll call me in and use me, make me your needy little whore —" 

Treville's cock twitches — 

They both *moan* — 

And Porthos *grunts*. "Fuck, sir, *fuck*. Just — just *that*. We both know we *both* need that. Me because — I don't even know, but maybe just because I've never bloody had it and had it be *good*, and *you* because it lets you be the Captain, the *Captain*, in a way that actually makes a little bloody sense to the man in you. Yeah?"

Treville shudders. "I... am not sure I should *let* myself think of it that way, son," he says, and laughs hard. 

"Well, too bad?" Porthos snorts. "You sodding obviously can't think about it in any of the ways you were thinking about it when it was the other bloke. Your *brother*." 

"No — no." 

"But you *do* have to act like you do. All the time, yeah?" 

"Yes." 

"So you need time to be — to be who you *are*. I mean, we *all* need that." 

"I want — I want to *have* you." 

"You've sodding *got* me, sir. Just — just don't lie. Please." 

"I... didn't lie —" 

"*Sir* —" 

"I *am* sure your lover wants a better life," Treville says, and urges Porthos to kneel up, to move into his arms — 

To be close enough to kiss — 

His round little ear — "You won't be able to give her one." 

"What — what? But — I'll be paid. And — it's an *important* job!" 

"The *most* important job," Treville says, and kisses his ear. "You will never do anything else *more* important, I promise you," he says, and strokes Porthos's belly with one hand and his hip with the other. "But... that's just it." 

Porthos... breathes. "You're. You're saying I won't have time for her." 

"Yes." 

"You're saying — you're saying you'll *take* my time —" 

"Most of the time, son, I'm going to be fucking you hard and fast and faster than *that*..." 

"Oh — fuck, sir —" 

"... so that you can get back to *work* where you *belong*." 

"Right... right." 

I'm saying I've already — no. "I'm saying that I've already taken your time. That the moment you agreed to be a Musketeer, you gave the family life away." 

"But — *your* Captain —" 

"He went 'home' often enough to impregnate his wife twice, and impart a few life lessons to his sons as they aged, son. *I* know them better than he did, because, when it came time for him to send his respects, he most often sent me. *Because* he'd sent me the first time, and the time after that..." 

"And because he knew you wouldn't fuck his wife?" 

That — Treville laughs, and thinks of the Captain's incredulous expression — 

His *confused* expressions, *plural* — 

His utter *disbelief* — 

"What is it, sir?" 

You're still calling me that, and if you stop I'll *put* you *right* back down on your knees — because I need it, Treville doesn't say as he makes love to Porthos's throat — 

"Sir — oh, fuck — please — please, you'll get me hard again —" 

Treville sucks hard just below Porthos's ear. "Did you think I wouldn't take care of you, son?" 

"Ah, shit, you're so — fuck — fuck, I can't even *think* straight —" 

"I'd be insulted if you could, what with my cock being in your arse." 

Porthos snorts. "*Sir* —" 

Treville laughs and kisses Porthos's ear. "Go on, call me 'Daddy' again, son..." 

Porthos gasps a little. "You liked that." 

"Who wouldn't be proud of a beautiful, wise, powerful, *resilient* boy like you?" 

"Oh — shit —" 

"Who wouldn't want to —" 

"Wait, wait, sir, *please*!" 

Treville kisses Porthos's ear."What am I waiting for? Hm? My cock is already ready and *aching* for you again, son." 

Porthos *groans*. "I just — what were you — you were *laughing* —" 

"One day, my Captain, my *brother*, my dearest, eldest brother, set out to try to *comprehend* me, and what made me *tick*. Specifically, what made my *cock* tick." 

"Oh — shit," Porthos says, snorting. "He... he didn't really... I mean, *do* you like women, at all?" 

"I don't *object* to them —" 

"Right, *that's* an answer," Porthos says, and *snickers*. 

Treville laughs softly. "So it is," he says, and strokes the shallow bowls of Porthos's hips. "You're beautiful spread over my thighs like this, son..." 

"Oh — thank you, sir —" 

"And my brother *categorically* could *not* understand how I could say and think and feel such things.... and yet *not* feel them for his wife." 

"Uh." 

"His wife being the most beautiful of women, of course." 

"Uhh..." 

"The most beautiful, loving, and *accomplished* —" 

"Sir, are you *positive* that he didn't, you know, want you two to *both*...?" 

Treville *coughs*. 

"It just *sounds* like —" 

"It wasn't." 

"You're *sure* —" 

Treville laughs and kisses Porthos's cheek. "My brother went to the marriage bed a virgin —" 

"A what now." 

"And never, ever strayed from his vows even though he spent far more of life on campaign than off." 

"Uh. A *religious* sort, then." 

"Precisely. Still a soldier, though, and I was *not* the first buggerer he'd met in the ranks, and not the first one he'd met who was, for the most part, a man of honour." 

"So he trusted you around his *sons*, too." 

"Oh, yes. And I repaid *that* trust by filling the eldest's mind with tales of life as a Musketeer, tales expressly designed to make a boy with a great deal of physical *potential* put the time and effort in to turning that potential into something far, far more." 

Porthos covers Treville's hands. "You'll be taking *him*, too, then." 

And that thought — 

The images that come *with* it — 

Olivier's excited *smiles* whenever he had perfected something in his fencing — "I."

"Oh — shit, I didn't mean it *that* way, sir." 

"Right —" 

"But maybe I should've...? How *much* does the boy resemble his father?" 

"Not at all. More's the pity." 

"Because the boy isn't 'beautiful'?" 

"Because he *is*. In a different enough *way* from his father that my mind won't stop *itself*," Treville says with no small measure of self-disgust. 

But. 

"Perhaps..." 

Porthos grunts. "I think I know that tone. Perhaps what, sir?" 

"As well you should," Treville says, and strokes up over Porthos's belly and chest, doing it greedily, *possessively* — 

"Oh — shit — sir —" 

"*Perhaps*... I can tell my needy little whore of a son all about my desperate, hungry, *frustrated* desires as he swallows my cock." 

Porthos moans.

"Would you like that, son?"

"I —" 

"Would you like to ease your Daddy's pain?" 

"Fuck — sir — you're the dirtiest man on the *planet* —" 

It's *possible* he shouldn't take that as a compliment — "Yes or no." 

"*Yes*, sir, and also please *fuck* me — UNH — again — oh, sir — oh, *fuck*, sir —" 

"You should always be on your hands and knees, son..." 

"Yes, sir — *yes*, sir —" 

"You love it down there," Treville says, and rocks in and out gently, gently — 

Porthos moans and drops his head — "I want — I want it, sir — I want you to put me — down —" 

"Do you." 

"Yes, sir. Keep me down, put me — d-down — oh, *fuck*, sir, your prick feels *huge* when you —" 

"Lift your arse, son, just —" 

They *grunt* together — 

"There. Isn't that easier...?" 

Porthos grunts again — 

Again — 

*Whimpers* — "'s'good —" 

"You like it." 

"I love it, sir, I love it —" 

"Do you want more?" 

"*Please* sir!"

Treville growls and grips Porthos's hips too hard, *too* hard — 

"Oh — oh, *God*, sir —" 

*Fucks* him too — 

No — 

"I want you to *spend* again —" 

"No, sir, *please*, sir!" 

And Treville shoves *in* before he can stop himself, fucks in fast, fast — 

"Unh — *unh* —" 

"What — you have to *spend* —" 

"Please — please just use me like your *whore*!" 

And the urge to take that at face value — 

His hips are already — 

Porthos is moaning for him so loudly, so sweetly — 

So *hungrily* — 

But. Treville *forces* himself to *slow down*. 

"Nuh — *no* —" 

"Tell me *why*, son." 

"Sir, please —" 

"Tell me!" 

And Porthos sobs and lifts his arse *higher* — 

Treville groans and *represses* the urge to *slam* in — 

"'s just, 's good, perfect, want to make you feel *good* —" 

"Did you think you *weren't*?" 

"I *know* I am, sir, but — but *better*," Porthos says, and he's nearly sobbing again, clawing at the duvet — "Please let me make it right, make it *good*." 

And this — 

The desperation in his voice — 

The real *need* — 

"Son..." 

"*Please*, sir! I can — let me —" Porthos swallows with a hard little click and pants. "Just use me, use me and let me make it right for you, *please*." 

And. 

He has to stop for that, just stop — 

Stop *completely* — 

"Please don't, sir, please —" 

"Shh," Treville says, and, strokes Porthos's back — 

Flattens his palms to it — 

Massages and *takes* — 

"Oh — sir —" 

"I'm. I'm to take my *own* pleasure —" 

Porthos clenches hard and *whines* — 

Oh... "Answer me, son." 

"Yes, sir! Please sir, do — do *that* —" 

"And not please you?" 

"It will, fuck, I *promise* it will —" 

"Even if you don't spend?" 

And Porthos turns his head — enough that Treville can see him blushing, dark and sweet. 

"Son..." 

"I just. I need. If I can... take care of you...." 

Treville grunts and grips Porthos's hips again, holds them and — and warms them in his hands, even though they're already *hot* — 

Even though everything *about* this boy — 

"You need your Daddy to have what *he* needs. Don't you." 

"Oh — fuck — yes, sir. Yes, Daddy —" 

"You need your Daddy to be... wrapped up tight in you..." 

"Buried... buried deep —" 

Treville growls and rocks in, *in* — 

Porthos groans and nods — 

Flexes open around him — 

*Takes* him — 

"You. You need your... oh, Porthos..." 

"Please — please, sir!" 

Treville squeezes his hips *hard* — 

"Oh — fuck, *yes*, sir, *yes* —" 

"You'll be my son, won't you?" And he rocks in just a little faster — 

"Ahn — anything — *anything*!" 

"Say yes, son. Say yes to me *always*." 

"Yes, Daddy, fuck, *fuck* —" 

"Yes, good boy, good —" Treville growls and *gives* it to Porthos, to — 

To his beautiful — 

"Good *son*," he says, and starts fucking him *hard* — 

"Daddy, *yes*, *yes* —" 

"Take it — take everything I *give* you —" 

Porthos groans and drops his head further, pushes his face into the duvet and offers himself — 

"Perfect — perfect son —" 

"*Daddy* —" 

"This, son. This. Is what I *like*," Treville says, and fucks his son hard and fast, long strokes to let them both feel every inch, every *hairsbreadth* — 

And Porthos tightens for a *moment* — but then goes loose everywhere, gives everything, every part of himself as he moans — 

As he moans and moans and drools and *takes* — 

So — 

"You —" But Treville can't make words after that, can't — 

He can't do anything but *fuck* his boy, his son, his son's plush-swollen arse, loose enough to make this perfect, tight enough to make this *perfect* — 

He's gripping Porthos's hips so *tight* — 

He's — 

He *must* be leaving *bruises*, and he wants to loosen his grip, he honestly does, but he's gasping and shouting for the feel of it, for the *rightness* of it, and when his beautiful son smiles — 

When even *more* tension *leaves* him — 

Treville growls and forces his son's thighs wider apart, opens him more, *more* — 

And fucks him hard —

*Hard* — 

Fucks him through every moan and sigh and —

Oh, God — 

Oh, God, so *good* — 

"I never — want to *stop*!" 

And his son doesn't say a word, doesn't — 

Just lifts his arse *fractionally* higher, the little bit he *can* with the way Treville has him *spread*, and now Treville is grunting like an animal, like an animal being *beaten* — 

Forcing his way in and in and *in* even though he doesn't have to do anything of the *kind* — 

Even though Porthos is smiling so — 

So *blissfully* — 

Treville can't keep himself from *snarling* — 

From fucking so raggedly, *harshly* — 

"Son — *son* —" 

"Daddy, tell me what — what you *need* —" 

"Tell me — tell me —" And Treville growls because he can't get the rest of the words out, can't — 

Can't *dare* — 

It's too *much*, even though he *also* can't bloody *stop* — 

But his son just grins *wider* — "'s bloody perfect — just — just fuck me until 'm too stupid to do *anything* but *be* fucked —" 

"Oh —" 

And his son laughs, hungry and breathless and so alive, so *alive* — "You could do it, you could do bloody anything with that — that prick — oh, Daddy —" 

"Son — I'm — I'm —" 

"You're going to spend? Should I work your prick, Daddy?" And he clenches — 

Treville practically *barks* a cry — 

"Oh — oh, *yeah*, Daddy," he says, and clenches again, over and over — 

And Treville snarls and lets go of one hip to *grip* the back of his son's neck, to hold it tight and push his face down, hold it*down* — 

He doesn't *struggle* — 

It feels like Treville's whole *body* spasms — and then he's snarling more and *pumping* spend into his son's arse — 

Giving — 

Giving everything — 

Filling him up — 

Taking his son's muffled moans for his own and filling him *up* — 

There's never been *anything* so *good* — 

He can't even *recognize* the noises coming out of his mouth, animal and low, still starved even though — 

Even though... 

But. 

The realization comes with a flash of needy fire in his *spine*: Treville will always be *exactly* this starved for Porthos, because he *is* his son. 

He'd taken the boy for his own — 

The boy had allowed himself to *be* taken — 

Had affirmed Treville's worthiness *to* do such a thing — 

And Treville is panting and shuddering now, stroking Porthos everywhere, gripping at his sides, his hips — 

Bruised — 

Licking the sweat off his own palms and fingers — 

Stroking and squeezing *more* — 

And Porthos moans and grins, turning his head enough that Treville can see it. "That was bloody perfect, sir." 

That... 

Treville keeps stroking, but — 

"For me, as well. But..." 

"Mm?" 

"Will you tell me when you think you'll feel comfortable calling me —" But then he has to stop, because it — *it* — falls on him. 

The boy he'd been looking for, off and on, for nearly sixteen years.

The boy who was the son of a freed slave and a noble not even remotely worth his title. 

The boy whose mother had *disappeared* into the Court of Miracles, where gentry — even poor and pathetic gentry like *him* — could never follow. He — 

"I'd feel pretty comfortable calling you Daddy whenever, sir. Or Daddy," Porthos says, and when he laughs he sounds young — 

So *young* — 

"You're a damned *good* Daddy," he says, and folds his arms under his head. "Know just how to make your boy feel useful. Feel *right*." 

And — 

And he has to tell Porthos. 

He *has* to. But... perhaps not this instant. "You're far more than useful, son," Treville says, emphasizing the last word a little — 

Porthos hums. "Yeah, all right, I can take that." 

"You can take a lot of things —" 

"There's something on your mind, Daddy. I can *feel* it." 

"You're an intuitive boy... and I'll tell you in a little while," Treville says, and goes back to petting and stroking. 

"Yeah? All right, then. I'll just live with being molested all lovingly and such." 

Treville smiles, and it hurts a little on his face. And. 

And. 

"Sometimes... I would wake up curled in Kitos's arms after a night when I'd been especially drunk."

"*Really*. Even though the two of you weren't lovers?" 

Treville laughs. "Even so. He was the most *relentlessly* *cuddly* man I have ever met." 

"Oh, *that's* nice."

Treville massages the back of Porthos's neck. "Yes? You like that sort of thing?" 

"What do *you* think, Daddy?"

Treville hums. "So I can call you to my office just to hold you?" 

Porthos grins and shivers. "That sounds pretty nice, Daddy. Maybe I'll sit on your lap —" 

Treville's cock twitches — 

Porthos gasps — 

Winces a little — 

"Oh — fuck. Daddy..." 

Treville strokes him, strokes him slowly and firmly. "Do you need me to pull out?" 

"Fuck — yeah. I don't want you to, though." 

"Mm. Like I said, we'll have to get your arse in shape." 

Porthos laughs. "Fuck, Daddy, you're going to ruin me for — uh. Everyone? Yeah, everyone," he says, and starts taking deep, slow breaths. 

Treville keeps petting. "Anyone would be possessive of you. Anyone would do everything in their power to make you want to *stay*." 

Porthos moans and clenches again — 

Treville *forces* himself not to buck — 

"Daddy — fuck —" 

"Shh, just breathe." 

"Yeah... yeah..." 

"Breathe and stay open for me, son." 

"Oh — fuck. I'll want you to sodding *fuck* me again if I think about *that*," Porthos says, laughing — 

And Treville snorts. "Son, if I don't stop fucking you soon..." 

"You'll fall over?" 

"Yes. After I fuck you to the point where my body is exhausted *utterly*." 

Porthos breathes — 

Breathes — 

"Uhh..." 

Treville grins and strokes Porthos's thighs. "Yes, son?" 

"When do you think you'll *reach* that point?" 

"There are times when we Musketeers fight battles that last all day and night, taking breaks only to doze with one eye open as we wait for the next *opportunity* to wreak more havoc..." 

"Fuck, no wonder you didn't want your brother's wife, Daddy. She probably needs *naps* sometimes." 

Treville laughs. "Never underestimate the fortitude of a noblewoman. They may look and act ridiculous, but any number of them can and *will* rip you apart in an *instant* if you give them an excuse." 

"Well, I'll just be taking *that* advice to heart, then," Porthos says, and nods. "I'm ready for you to pull out, Daddy." 

"Yes?" 

"I know I don't feel much looser, but that's just 'cause you've got me all swollen," he says, grinning. "I'm good." 

Treville growls. 

"Fuck, yeah. You like that, Daddy? You like that you've left your mark on me?" 

"You're also bruised..." 

Porthos grunts. "That's not so easy to do, Daddy. You must've been holding me *tight*." 

"I — no, wait," Treville says, pulling out slowly and steadily — 

Porthos moans and pants through it, arse *gripping* at Treville's cock — 

"Are you thinking about how it'd feel if I fucked you *again*, son?" 

"Yeah — yeah, Daddy —" 

"How much it'd hurt?" 

"Please, Daddy —"

"Shh. I have to leave you capable of training." 

Porthos moans. "Yeah — yes, Daddy," he says, crawling forward a little — 

Treville's cock slips out, still well over half-hard — 

Still *hungry* — 

And Porthos moans again and laughs, turning over onto his back. "And there it is. Mm. Looks *exactly* like it wants —" 

"Don't — don't," Treville says, laughing at himself and moving for the basins by the fireplace to wash himself down a little. 

"You really *could* go again, couldn't you?" 

"I sincerely wish this water was colder, son." 

"You're a bloody *inspiration*, Daddy." 

Treville snorts and washes a bit of the sweat off *first* —

"Mm. I love your body, Daddy." 

Treville grins. "Do you, now." 

"You're insanely just... *fit*." 

Treville shakes his head and laughs. "Have you looked at yourself?" 

"Yeah, but I'm a bloody *boy*. Ish. You should be falling apart." 

"Not for some time, yet, hopefully." 

"Yeah?" And Porthos scratches between his pectoral muscles. "The men in your family are like that? Last a while?" 

Treville raises his eyebrows. 

"Oi, I have to see what I'm getting, don't I?" 

"Me. For the *long* haul." 

Porthos *grunts*, blinking like a boy -- 

Staring -- 

"I. I like that," he says, softly, and *smiles* like a boy.

"So do I," Treville says, and gives his cock a wash instead of *taking* again. "But, in answer to your question... an ague took my father and brother fifteen years ago. My mother died birthing my sister, who died when she was barely out of the nursery." 

Porthos winces. "Damn. 'm sorry, Daddy." 

Treville smiles wryly. "They hadn't been my *true* family in quite some time, son." 

"That was — Kitos. Reynard. Your boss." 

"Just so." 

"Tell me something else about Reynard?" 

Treville cocks his head to the side — and grins. 

"Oh, *that* looks like a happy memory." 

"Once — just once — we fucked a pair of twins together. A boy and a girl." 

"*Shit*." 

"Her name was Marie-Elise. His name was Edouard. They had hair like summer wheat, and dark brown freckles absolutely everywhere," Treville says, and walks back to the bed. 

Porthos wriggles and shifts until they can get *under* the covers — 

And Treville pins him gently and not especially effectively — one leg thrown over Porthos's own, one hand cupping the back of his head and his sweaty curls, the other hand cupping his smooth cheek. He kisses Porthos once — 

"Mm —" 

"I spread Edouard over my lap with his face tucked in against my throat and bounced him on my cock. Reynard did the same with Marie-Elise. Reynard and I watched each *other* the entire time, laughing and smiling and daring each other, muttering utter filth in an attempt to make the other spend *first*." 

Porthos *snorts*. "*Fuck*, Daddy. How long did you go?" 

"The twins were young. Edouard spent three times. Marie-Elise spent more times than we could *count* —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"In the end, Reynard won the game, because he cheated like the bastard he was," Treville says, and strokes Porthos's smooth eyebrow. 

"How the bloody hell do you *cheat* at something like that?" 

Treville laughs. "He said I was making Edouard make too much noise. He said the only possible thing for him to do about that was fuck Marie-Elise unconscious and then come over and fill Edouard's mouth with his cock —" 

"Oh my — *shit* —" 

"So that we could quiet him down *together*." 

"And you spent yourself *blind*." 

Treville *licks* Porthos's mouth. "That I did, son. Bellowing like a bull-calf, if I recall correctly." 

Porthos snickers and pulls him in for a real kiss, deep and strong — 

So good — 

Beautiful — 

*Beautiful* — 

Fucking *Belgard* — 

Treville pulls back and rests his forehead against Porthos's for a moment. 

"So you're going to tell me what's on your mind, Daddy?" 

"Reynard was a good guess." 

"Well, your mood turned black enough —" 

Treville kisses Porthos again. "I think — I *think* — that I know who your father is." 

"You — what." 

"I didn't realize it until a few moments ago, but.... I think that you're the boy whose mother a friend and I helped *escape* from your drunken, pathetic father —" 

"*Treville* —" 

"Tell me. Was she a freed slave named Amina?"

And Porthos gives him a wounded look that says... everything. 

Treville nods. "We tried to find her. We..." Treville shakes his head. "We were barely more than boys ourselves, and that's no *excuse*, but whenever we tried to go into the Court, even in *disguise* —" 

"I know — I know what bloody *happened* —"

"Porthos —" 

"I know you couldn't even send a — a sodding *message* —" And Porthos growls and turns away. 

But. 

He doesn't make Treville stop touching him. 

He doesn't pull away — 

Treville waits, and does his best to *swallow* his own hunger, his own need — 

"She said." 

He *waits* — 

"Before she died, I mean..." 

Treville breathes — no. "What did she say, son — Porthos —" 

"Fuck — *fuck*." Porthos turns back to face him with a *bruised* look behind his eyes, with — 

Treville *holds* him — 

"Oh, God, you — you're going to comfort me." 

"I want to try." 

"Did you? With your — your family? Or were they always just grabbing you up when you were too drunk to resist?" 

Treville knows he looks pained, but — "Mostly the latter." 

Porthos's laugh is just as pained. "Yeah, I. For a long time, I didn't let anyone hug me. Because that's what my mum had done. And we'd slept together, you know. One bundle of blankets, and all, and she made it right, and soft for me, and it always smelled just perfect, like *her*... and." 

"I'm listening." 

"And one of the last things she said to me, and I was bloody *five*, and she was bloody *delirious*, so I didn't think she had a *reason* to say it, was that I shouldn't trust aristocrats, because I'd never know when one would turn on me. And I remember thinking — when would I meet one of *those*? And then she was off again, raving and completely incoherent with fever, talking too fast in languages I didn't *know* enough of..." Porthos shakes his head. "So she had a reason to say it." 

"Your father was going to lose his inheritance over his affair with your mother. Over *you*. He decided, in his infinite wisdom, that he would have you both killed." 

"What was my mother even *doing* — no, no. She probably didn't have much of a choice. Did she." 

"The Belgard family is exceedingly wealthy and powerful, yes." 

"Fucking — fucking *bastards* —" 

"Yes." 

"Who was the friend." 

"Son? I mean —" 

"Don't — don't bloody *correct* yourself. I know — fuck," Porthos says, and reaches up to cover his face with one big hand for a long moment before dropping it again. "I *like* that you think of me that way." 

"I want you forever," Treville says, and knows he sounds too hungry, too needy and *possessive* — 

Porthos is *stiffening* — 

"I —" 

And then Porthos looks at him hard. "What would you have done if you'd found my mum and me? I mean — really. What would you have *done*?" 

"Took care of you, as best as I could. I —" 

"What *friend* helped you?" 

"I — my Captain. The Comte de la Fere. You wouldn't have wanted for *anything* —" 

"Fuck, why did you — *how* did you know about — about me and my mum? About sodding Belgard?" 

"My Captain knew him — not well. It was more... he was notorious as a drunkard and wastrel. His affair with a freed slave was... gossip, in those circles." 

Porthos looks sick — 

"We don't have to talk about this —" 

"No, we bloody *don't*. *Fuck*. Or — am I going to have to... I don't know, protect *him*?" 

"He doesn't get invited anywhere you would be expected to go. Not anymore. But... sometimes his cousins — your cousins — do." 

Porthos narrows his eyes. "Did *they* do anything to try to find me?" 

"No —" 

"Did they do anything to try to *protect* me from my bloody *father*?" 

"No —" 

"Then they're not bloody *mine*," Porthos says, and lifts his chin.

Treville takes a breath — "And I am?"

Porthos's eyes widen for a moment — and then go back to being steely and *hot*. "Yeah. Yeah, you are, Daddy," he says, with just a hint of stress on the last word. It — 

There is no doubt in Treville's mind that Porthos knows his *own* mind, that he has *spoken* his mind and — 

And it's final.

He growls, helplessly. "I won't let you get away from me again." 

Porthos *pants* — "I — I have to tell Flea, you know, I have to *talk* to her." 

"I know. And you'll be able to get her some of your pay. But you won't disappear. You won't..." Treville growls *again*. "You'll give me a way to get *to* you in the Court, Porthos." 

"Yeah — yeah. I will, Daddy. I'll — think on how —" 

"Good."

Porthos licks his lips. "You um. You take family really seriously."

"Yes," Treville says, and kisses Porthos's forehead. 

Porthos closes his eyes, long lashes fluttering on his cheeks. "I do, too, Daddy. I — I promise I do." 

"You'll show me." 

"Yeah, I will. I — I'll show you everything." 

And Treville knows that *Porthos* doesn't really know what 'everything' means — not yet, anyway — but he also knows that it won't be long before he does.

Before this life — and Treville himself — teaches him. 

He kisses Porthos's forehead again. "Rest, son." 

Porthos laughs quietly. "'cause I'll need it, Daddy?" 

Treville smiles. "Yes." 

end.


End file.
